A   GARDEN   OF   PEACE 

F.    FRANKFORT   MOORE 


[Frontispiece] 


THE  CASTLE  GATEWAY   AND   KEEP 


A 

GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

A   MEDLEY  IN  QUIETUDE 

BY 
F.  FRANKFORT  MOORE 


AUTHOR  OF 
'THE  JESSAMY  BRIDE,"  ETC. 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1820 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

DOROTHY 

ROSAMUND     FRANCIE 
OLIVE  MARJORIE 

URSULA 


2052002 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  CASTLE  GATEWAY  AND  KEEP  ....       Frontispiece 

PAGE 

THE  "  CREEPER-CLAD  RESIDENCE  " 24 

FORMAL  BEDS  AND  ROSE  BORDER 32 

THE  PEACOCK  ARCH 48 

THE  CASCADE    (MONOLITHS  FROM  GIANT'S  CAUSEWAY  IN 

FOREGROUND) 64 

THE  HOUSE  GARDEN 80 

ROSE  PILLAR  AND  PERGOLA 112 

THE  TEMPLE  AND  THE  TEMPLARS 128 

THE  SHELTER  OF  ARTEMIS 144 

THE  An  BABA  PLACE      ........  160 

A  ROSE  COLONNADE 168 

A  LILY  POND 176 

ENTRANCE  TO  THE  ITALIAN  GARDEN 208 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  ITALIAN  GARDEN     .        .        .        .     '  .  224 

THE  ENTRANCE  TO  A  GREENHOUSE         .....  240 

A  STONE  SEAT 264 

THE  HERBACEOUS  TERRACE 272 

CONSTRUCTING  THE  PEACH  ALLEY 296 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 


CHAPTER  THE  FIRST 

DOROTHY  frowns  slightly,  but  slightingly,  at  the 
title;  but  when  challenged  to  put  her  frown  into 
words  she  has  nothing  worse  to  say  about  it  than 
that  it  has  a  certain  catchpenny  click — the  world  is 
talking  about  The  Peace  and  she  has  an  impression 
that  to  introduce  the  word  even  without  the  very 
definite  article  is  an  attempt  to  derive  profit  from  a 
topic  of  the  hour — something  like  backing  a  horse 
with  a  trusty  friend  for  a  race  which  you  have 
secret  information  it  has  won  five  minutes  earlier — 
a  method  of  amassing  wealth  resorted  to  every  day, 
I  am  told  by  some  one  who  has  tried  it  more  than 
once,  but  always  just  five  minutes  too  late. 

I  don't  like  Dorothy's  rooted  objection  to  my  liter- 
ary schemes,  because  I  know  it  to  be  so  confoundedly 
well  rooted;  so  I  argue  with  her,  assuring  her  that 
literary  men  of  the  highest  rank  have  never  shown 
any  marked  reluctance  to  catch  the  pennies  that  are 
thrown  to  them  by  the  public  when  they  hit  upon  a 

n 


12  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

title  that  jingles  with  the  jingle  of  the  hour.  To  de- 
scend to  an  abject  pleasantry  I  tell  her  that  a  taking 
title  is  not  always  the  same  as  a  take-in  title;  but,  for 
my  part,  even  if  it  were 

And  then  I  recall  how  the  late  R.  D.  Blackmore 
(whose  works,  by  the  way,  I  saw  in  a  bookseller's  at 
Twickenham  with  a  notice  over  them—  "  by  a  local 
author")  accounted  for  the  popularity  of  Lorna 
Doone:  people  bought  it  believing  that  it  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  extremely  popular  engagement 
— "  a  Real  German  Defeat,"  Tenniel  called  it  in  his 
Punch  cartoon — of  the  Marquis  of  Lome  and  the 
Princess  Louise.  And  yet  so  far  from  feeling  any 
remorse  at  arriving  at  the  Temple  of  Fame  by  the 
tradesman's  entrance,  he  tried  to  get  upon  the  same 
track  again  a  little  later,  calling  his  new  novel  Alice 
Lorraine:  people  were  talking  a  lot  about  Alsace- 
Lorraine  at  the  time,  as  they  have  been  doing  ever 
since,  though  never  quite  so  loudly  as  at  the  present 
moment  (I  trust  that  the  publishers  of  the  novel  are 
hurrying  on  with  that  new  edition) . 

But  Dorothy's  reply  comes  pat:  If  Mr.  Blackmore 
did  that,  all  she  can  say  is  that  she  doesn't  think  any 
the  better  of  him  for  it;  just  what  the  Sabbatarian 
Scotswoman  said  when  the  act  of  Christ  in  plucking 
the  ears  of  corn  on  the  Sabbath  Day  was  brought 
under  her  ken. 

"  My  dear,"  I  cry,  "  you  shouldn't  say  that  about 
Mr.  Blackmore:  you  seem  to  forget  that  his  second 
name  was  Doddridge,  and  I  think  he  was  fully  justi- 
fied in  refusing  to  change  the  attractive  name  of  his 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  18 

heroine  of  the  South  Downs  because  it  happened  to 
catch  the  ears  (and  the  pence)  of  people  interested  in 
the  French  provinces  which  were  pinched  by  the 
Germans,  who  added  insult  to  injury  by  transforming 
Alsace-Lorraine  to  Elsass-Lothringen.  And  so  far 
as  my  own  conscience  is  concerned " 

"  Your  own  what? "  cried  Dorothy. 

"  My  own  conscience — literary  conscience,  of 
course." 

"Oh,  that  one?   Well?" 

"  I  say,  that  so  far  as — as — as  I  am  concerned,  I 
would  not  have  shrunk  from  calling  a  book  A  Garden 
in  Tipperary  if  I  had  written  it  a  few  years  ago  when 
all  England  and  a  third  of  France  were  ringing  with 
the  name  Tipperary. 

"  Only  then  it  would  have  been  a  Garden  of  War, 
but  now  it  suits  you — your  fancy,  to  make  it  a  Garden 
of  Peace." 

"  It's  not  too  late  yet;  if  you  go  on  like  this,  I  think 
I  could  manage  to  introduce  a  note  of  warfare  into  it 
and  to  make  people  see  the  appropriateness  of  it  as 
well ;  so  don't  provoke  me." 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Dorothy,  with  one  of  her  per- 
plexing smiles. 

And  then  she  became  interesting;  for  she  was  ready 
to  affirm  that  every  garden  is  a  battlefield,  even  when 
it  is  not  run  by  a  husband  and  his  wife — a  dual 
system  which  led  to  the  most  notorious  horticultural 
fiasco  on  record.  War,  according  to  Milton,  origi- 
nated in  heaven,  but  it  has  been  carried  on  with  great 
energy  ever  since  on  earth,  and  the  first  garden  of 


14  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

which  there  is  a  literary  record  maintained  the  heav- 
enly tradition.  So  does  the  last,  which  has  brought 
forth  fruit  and  flowers  in  abundance  through  the 
slaughter  of  slugs,  the  crushing  of  snails,  the  immola- 
tion of  leather- jackets,  the  annihilation  of  earwigs, 
and  is  now  to  be  alluded  to  as  a  Garden  of  Peace,  if 
you  please. 

Dorothy  can  be  very  provoking  when  she  pleases 
and  is  wearing  the  right  sort  of  dress;  and  when  she 
has  done  proving  that  the  most  ancient  tradition  of 
a  garden  points  to  a  dispute  not  yet  settled,  between 
the  man  and  his  wife  who  were  running  it,  she  begins 
to  talk  about  the  awful  scenes  that  have  taken  place 
in  gardens.  We  have  been  together  in  a  number  of 
gardens  in  various  parts  of  the  world:  from  those 
of  the  Borgias,  where,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening, 
Lucrezia  and  her  relations  communed  on  the  strides 
that  the  science  and  art  of  toxicology  was  making, 
on  to  the  little  Trianon  where  the  diamond  necklace 
sparkled  in  the  moonlight  on  the  eve  of  the  rising  of 
the  people  against  such  folk  as  Queens  and  Cardinals 
— on  to  the  gardens  of  the  Temple,  where  the  roses 
were  plucked  before  the  worst  of  the  Civil  Wars  of 
England  devastated  the  country — on  to  Cherry 
Orchard,  near  Kingston  in  the  island  of  Jamaica, 
where  the  half-breed  Gordon  concocted  his  patriotic 
treason  which  would  have  meant  the  letting  loose  of 
a  jungle  cf  savages  upon  a  community  of  civilisation, 
and  was  only  stamped  out  by  the  firm  foot  of  the 
white  man  on  whose  shoulders  the  white  man's  burden 
was  laid,  and  who  snatched  his  fellow-countrymen 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  15 

from  massacre  at  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  career;  for 
party  government,  which  has  been  the  curse  of  Eng- 
land, was  not  to  be  defrauded  of  its  prey  because  Gov- 
ernor Eyre  had  saved  a  colony  from  annihilation. 
These  are  only  a  few  of  the  gardens  in  which  we  have 
stood  together,  and  Dorothy's  memory  for  their  asso- 
ciations is  really  disconcerting.  I  am  disconcerted; 
but  I  wait,  for  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  of  the 
Garden  comes  to  me  at  times — I  wait,  and  when  I 
have  the  chance  of  that  edgeways  word  which  some- 
times I  can't  get  in,  I  say, — 

"  Oh,  yes,  those  were  pleasant  days  in  Italy  among 
the  cypresses  and  myrtles,  and  in  Jamaica  with  its 
palms.  I  think  we  must  soon  have  another  ramble 
together." 

"  If  it  weren't  for  those  children — but  where  should 
we  go?  "  she  cried. 

"  I'm  not  sure,"  I  said,  as  if  revolving  many  memo- 
ries, "  but  I  think  some  part  of  the  Pacific  Slope " 

"  Gracious,  why  the  Pacific  Slope,  my  man? " 

"  Because  a  Pacific  Garden  must  surely  be  a 
Garden  of  Peace ;  and  that's  where  we  are  going  now 
with  the  title-page  of  a  book  that  is  to  catch  the 
pennies  of  the  public,  and  resemble  as  nearly  as  I 
can  make  it — consistent  with  my  natural  propensity 
to  quarrel  with  things  that  do  not  matter  in  the  least 
— one  of  the  shadiest  of  the  slopes  of  the  Island 
Valley  of  Avilion — 

"  Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly,  for  it  lies 


16  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows,  crown'd  with  summer  sea." 

Luckily  I  recollected  the  quotation,  for  if  I  had  not 
been  letter-perfect  I  should  have  had  a  poor  chance 
of  a  bright  future  with  Dorothy. 

As  it  was,  however,  she  only  felt  if  the  big  tomato 
was  as  ripe  as  it  seemed,  and  said, — 

" '  Orchard-lawns.'  H'm,  I  wonder  if  Tennyson, 
with  all  his  *  careful-robin '  observation  of  the  little 
things  of  Nature  was  aware  that  you  should  never 
let  grass  grow  in  an  apple  orchard." 

"  I  wonder,  indeed,"  I  said,  with  what  I  considered 
a  graceful  acquiescence.  "  But  at  the  same  time  I 
think  I  should  tell  you  that  there  are  no  little  things 
in  Nature." 

"  I  suppose  there  are  not,"  said  she.  "  Anyhow, 
you  will  have  the  biggest  tomato  in  Nature  in  your 
salad  with  the  cold  lamb.  Is  that  the  bell? " 

"  It  is  the  ghost-tinkle  of  the  bell  of  the  bell-wedder 
who  was  the  father  of  the  lamb,"  said  I  poetically. 

"So  long  as  you  do  not  mention  the  mother  of  the 
lamb  when  you  come  to  the  underdone  stratum,  I 
shall  be  satisfied,"  said  she. 

•  •        •  •  .  .  •  • 

PS.— (1.30)— And  I  didn't. 

•  «  .  •  • 

PPS.— (1.35)—  But  I  might  have. 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND 

THIS  town  of  ours  is  none  other  than  Yardley  Parva. 
Every  one  is  supposed  to  know  that  the  name  means 
"  The  Little  Sheltered  Garden,"  and  that  it  was  given 
this  name  by  a  mixed  commission  of  Normans  and 
Romans.  The  Normans,  who  spoke  a  sort  of  French, 
gave  it  the  first  syllable,  which  is  the  root  of  what 
became  jardin,  and  which  still  survives  in  the  "  back- 
yard "  of  American  literature ;  meaning  not  the  back- 
yard of  an  English  home,  where  broken  china  and 
glass  and  other  incidental  rubbish  are  thrown  to  work 
their  way  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  but  a  place  of 
flowers  and  beans  and  pumpkins.  The  surname, 
Parva,  represents  the  influence  of  the  Romans,  who 
spoke  a  sort  of  Latin.  Philologists  are  not  whole- 
hearted about  the  "  ley,"  but  the  general  impression 
is  that  it  had  a  narrow  escape  from  being  "  leigh,"  an 
open  meadow ;  ley,  however,  is  simply  "  lee,"  or  a 
sheltered  quarter,  the  opposite  to  "  windward." 

Whatever  foundation  there  may  be  for  this  phil- 
ology— whether  it  is  derived  from  post  hoc  evidence 
or  not — every  one  who  knows  the  place  intimately 
will  admit  that  if  it  is  not  literally  exact,  it  should 
be  made  so  by  the  Town  Council ;  for  it  is  a  town  of 
sheltered  little  gardens.  It  has  its  High  Street:  and 

17 


18  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

this  name,  a  really  industrious  philologist  will  tell 
you,  is  derived,  not  from  its  occupying  any  elevated 
position,  but  from  the  fact  that  the  people  living  on 
either  side  were  accustomed  to  converse  across  the 
street,  and  any  one  wishing  to  chat  with  an  opposite 
neighbour,  tried  to  attract  his  attention  with  the  usual 
hail  of  "hie  there!";  and  as  there  was  much  cross- 
questioning  and  answering,  there  was  a  constant 
chorus  of  "  hie,  hie ! "  so  that  it  was  really  the  gibe 
of  strangers  that  gave  it  its  name,  only  some  fool  of 
a  purist  seven  or  eight  hundred  years  ago  acquired 
the  absurd  notion  that  the  word  was  "  High  "  instead 
of  "Hie!"  So  it  was  that  Minnesingers'  Lane 
drifted  into  Mincing  Lane,  I  have  been  told.  It  had 
really  nothing  to  do  with  the  Min  Sing  district  of 
China,  where  the  tea  sold  in  that  street  of  tea-brokers 
came  from.  Philology  is  a  wonderful  study;  and  no 
one  who  has  made  any  progress  in  its  by-paths  should 
ever  be  taken  aback  or  forced  to  look  silly. 

The  houses  on  each  side  of  the  High  Street  are 
many  of  them  just  as  they  were  four  or  five  hundred 
years  ago.  Some  of  them  are  shops  with  bow  fronts 
that  were  once  the  windows  of  parlours  in  the  days 
when  honest  householders  drank  small  ale  for  break- 
fast and  the  industrious  apprentices  took  down  the 
shutters  from  their  masters'  shops  and  began  their 
day's  work  somewhere  about  five  o'clock  in  midsum- 
mer, graduating  to  seven  in  midwinter.  There  are 
now  some  noble  plate-glass  fronts  to  the  shops,  but 
there  are  no  apprentices,  and  certainly  no  masters. 
Scores  of  old,  red-tiled  roofs  remain,  but  they  are  no 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  19 

more  red  than  the  red  man  of  America  is  red.  The 
roofs  and  the  red  man  are  of  the  same  hue.  Sixty 
years  ago,  when  slate  roofs  became  popular,  they 
found  their  way  to  Yardley  Parva,  and  were  reck- 
oned a  guarantee  of  a  certain  social  standing.  If  you 
saw  a  slate  roof  and  a  cemented  brick  front  you  might 
be  sure  that  there  was  a  gig  in  the  stable  at  the  back. 
You  can  now  tell  what  houses  had  once  been  tiled  by 
the  pitch  of  the  roofs.  This  was  not  altered  on  the 
introduction  of  the  slates. 

But  with  the  innovations  of  plate-glass  shop-fronts 
and  slate  roofs  there  has  happily  been  no  change  in 
the  gardens  at  the  back  of  the  two  rows  of  the  houses 
of  the  High  Street.  Almost  every  house  has  still  its 
garden,  and  they  remain  gay  with  what  were  called 
in  my  young  days  "  old-fashioned  flowers,"  through 
the  summer,  and  the  pear-trees  that  sprawl  across 
the  high  dividing  walls  in  Laocoon  writhings — the 
quinces  that  point  derisive,  gnarled  fingers  at  the  old 
crabs  that  give  way  to  soundless  snarls  against  the 
trained  branches  of  the  Orange  Pippins — the  mulber- 
ries that  are  isolated  on  a  patch  of  grass — all  are 
to-day  what  they  were  meant  to  be  when  they  were 
planted  in  the  chalk  which  may  have  supplied  Roman 
children  with  marbles  when  they  had  civilized  them- 
selves beyond  the  knuckle-bones  of  their  ancestors' 
games. 

I  cannot  imagine  that  much  about  these  gardens 
has  changed  during  the  changes  of  a  thousand  years, 
except  perhaps  their  shape.  When  the  Anglo-Saxon 
epidemic  of  church-building  was  running  its  course, 


20  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

the  three-quarters-of-a-mile  of  the  High  Street  did 
not  escape.  There  was  a  church  every  hundred  yards 
or  so,  and  some  of  them  were  spacious  enough  to  hold 
a  congregation  of  fifty  or  sixty ;  and  every  church  had 
its  church-yard — that  is,  as  we  have  seen — its  garden, 
equal  to  the  emergencies  of  a  death-rate  of  perhaps 
two  every  five  years;  but  when  the  churches  became 
dwelling-houses,  as  several  did,  the  church-yard  be- 
came the  back-yard  in  the  American  sense :  fruit-trees 
were  planted,  and  beneath  their  boughs  the  burgesses 
discussed  the  merits  of  ale  and  the  passing  away  of 
the  mead  bowl,  and  shook  their  heads  when  some 
simpleton  suggested  that  the  arrow  that  killed  Rufus 
a  few  months  before  was  an  accidental  one.  There 
are  those  gardens  to-day,  and  the  burgesses  smoke 
their  pipes  over  the  six-thirty  edition  of  the  evening 
paper  that  left  London  at  five-fifteen,  and  listen  to 
stories  of  Dick,  who  lost  a  foot  at  the  ford  of  the 
Somme,  or  of  Tom,  who  got  the  M.C.  after  Mons, 
and  went  through  the  four  years  without  a  scratch, 
or  of  Bob,  who  had  his  own  opinion  about  the  taking 
of  Jerusalem,  outside  which  two  fingers  of  his  left 
hand  are  still  lying,  unless  a  thieving  Arab  appro- 
priated them. 

There  the  chat  goes  on  from  century  to  century  on 
the  self -same  subject — War,  war,  war.  It  is  certain 
that  men  left  Yardley  Parva  for  the  First  Crusade; 
one  of  the  streets  that  ran  from  the  Roman  road  to 
the  Abbey  which  was  founded  by  a  Crusading  Nor- 
man Earl,  retains  the  name  that  was  given  to  it  to 
commemorate  the  capture  of  Antioch  when  the  news 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  21 

reached  England  a  year  or  so  after  the  event ;  and  it 
is  equally  certain  that  Yardley  men  were  at  Bosworth 
Field,  and  Yardley  men  at  Tournai  in  1709  as  well 
as  in  1918 — at  the  Nile  in  1798  as  well  as  in  1915;  and 
it  is  equally  certain  that  such  of  them  as  came  back 
talked  of  what  they  had  seen  and  of  what  their  com- 
rades had  done.  The  tears  that  the  mothers  proudly 
shed  when  they  talked  of  those  who  had  not  come 
home  in  1918  were  shed  where  the  mothers  of  the 
Crusaders  of  1099  had  knelt  to  pray  for  the  repose 
of  the  souls  of  their  dear  ones  whose  bones  were 
picked  by  the  jackals  of  the  Lebanon.  On  the  site 
of  one  of  the  churches  of  the  market-place  there  is 
now  built  a  hall  of  moving  pictures — Moving  Pictures 
—that  is  the  whole  sum  of  the  bustle  of  the  thousand 
years — Moving  Pictures.  The  same  old  story.  Life 
has  not  even  got  the  instinct  of  the  film-maker:  it 
does  not  take  the  trouble  to  change  the  scenes  of  the 
exploits  of  a  thousand — ten  thousand — years  ago,  and 
those  of  to-day.  Egypt,  the  Nile,  Gaza,  Jerusalem, 
Damascus,  Mesopotamia.  Moving  pictures — walk- 
ing shadows — walking  about  for  a  while  but  all  hav- 
ing the  one  goal — the  Garden  of  Peace ;  those  gardens 
that  surrounded  the  churches,  where  now  the  apple- 
trees  bloom  and  fruit  and  shed  their  leaves. 

These  little  irregular  back-gardens  are  places  of 
enchantment  to  me  and  I  think  I  like  those  behind 
the  smallest  of  the  shops,  which  are  not  more  than 
thirty  feet  square,  rather  than  those  higher  up  the 
town,  of  a  full  acre  or  two.  These  bigger  ones  do  not 
suggest  a  history  beyond  the  memory  of  the  gardeners 


22  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

who  trim  the  hedges  and  cut  the  grass  with  a  ma- 
chine. The  small  and  irregular  ones  suggest  a  good 
deal  more  than  a  maiden  lady  wearing  gloves,  with 
a  basket  on  her  arm  and  a  pair  of  snipping  shears 
opening  its  jaws  to  bite  the  head  off  every  bloom  that 
has  a  touch  of  brown  on  its  edge.  But  with  me  it  is 
not  a  matter  of  liking  and  not  liking;  it  is  a  matter 
of  liking  and  liking  better — it  is  the  artisan's  opinion 
of  rival  beers  (pre-war) :  all  good  but  some  better 
than  others.  The  little  gardens  behind  the  shops  are 
lyrics;  the  big  ones  behind  the  villas  are  excellent 
prose,  and  excellent  prose  is  frequently  quite  as  prosy 
as  excellent  verse.  They  are  alive  but  they  are  not 
full  of  the  joy  of  living.  The  flowers  that  they  bring 
forth  suggest  nice  girls  whose  education  is  being  care- 
fully attended  to  by  gentlemen  who  are  preparing  for 
Ordination.  Those  flowers  do  not  sing,  and  I  know 
perfectly  well  that  if  they  were  made  to  sing  it  would 
be  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  harmonium,  and  they 
would  always  sing  in  tune  and  in  time:  but  they 
would  need  a  conductor,  they  would  never  try  any- 
thing on  their  own — not  even  when  it  was  dark  and 
no  one  would  know  anything  about  it.  Somehow 
these  borders  make  me  think  of  the  children  of  Blun- 
dell's  Charity — a  local  Fund  which  provides  for  the 
education  on  religious  principles  of  fifteen  children 
born  in  wedlock  of  respectable  parents.  They  occupy 
a  special  bench  in  the  aisle  of  one  of  the  churches,  and 
wear  a  distinctive  dress  with  white  collars  and  cuffs. 
They  attend  to  the  variations  of  the  Sacred  Service, 
and  are  always  as  tidy  and  uninteresting  as  the 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  23 

borders  in  the  wide  gardens  behind  the  houses  that  are 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond  the  gardens  of  the  High 
Street  shops. 

But  it  is  in  these  wide  gardens  that  the  earliest 
strawberries  are  grown,  and  to  them  the  reporter  of 
the  local  newspaper  goes  in  search  of  the  gigantic 
gooseberry  or  the  potato  weighing  four  pounds  and 
three  ounces;  and  that  is  what  the  good  ladies  with 
the  abhorred  shears  and  the  baskets — the  Atropussies, 
in  whose  hands  lie  the  fates  of  the  fruits  as  well  as  of 
the  flowers — consider  the  sum  of  high  gardening:  the 
growth  of  the  abnormal  is  their  aim  and  they  are  as 
proud  of  their  achievement  as  the  townsman  who  took 
to  poultry  was  of  his  when  he  exhibited  a  bantam 
weighing  six  pounds. 

Now  I  hold  that  gardens  are  like  nurseries — nurs- 
eries of  children,  I  mean — and  that  all  make  an  appeal 
to  one's  better  nature,  that  none  can  be  visited  with- 
out a  sense  of  pleasure  eyen  though  it  may  be  no  more 
than  is  due  to  the  anticipation  of  getting  away  from 
them;  therefore,  I  would  not  say  a  word  against  the 
types  which  I  venture  to  describe  as  I  have  found 
them.  The  worst  that  I  can  say  of  them  is  that  they 
are  easily  described,  and  the  garden  or  the  girl  that 
can  be  described  will  never  be  near  my  heart.  Those 
gardens  are  not  the  sort  that  I  should  think  of  marry- 
ing, though  I  can  live  on  the  friendliest  of  terms  with 
them,  particularly  in  the  strawberry  season.  They  do 
not  appeal  to  the  imagination  as  do  the  small  and 
irregular  ones  at  the  rear  of  the  grocer's,  the  sta- 
tioner's, the  fishmonger's,  the  bootmaker's,  or  the 


24  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

chymist's — in  this  connection  I  must  spell  the  name 
of  the  shop  with  a  y :  the  man  who  sits  in  such  a  garden 
is  a  chymist,  not  a  chemist.  I  could  not  imagine  a 
mere  chemist  sniffing  the  rosemary  and  the  tansy  and 
the  rue  au  naturel:  the  mere  chemist  puts  his  hand 
into  a  drawer  and  weighs  you  out  an  ounce  of  the 
desiccated  herbs. 

In  one  of  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy's  earlier  novels — I 
think  it  is  The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge — he  describes 
a  town,  which  is  very  nearly  as  delightfully  drowsy 
as  our  Yardley  Parva,  as  one  through  which  the  bees 
pass  in  summer  from  the  gardens  at  one  side  to  those 
at  the  other.  In  our  "town  I  feel  sure  that  the  bees 
that  enter  among  the  small  gardens  of  sweet  scents 
and  savours  at  one  end  of  the  High  Street,  never 
reach  the  gardens  of  the  gigantic  gooseberry  at  the 
other;  unless  they  make  a  bee-line  for  them  at  the 
moment  of  entering;  for  they  must  find  their  time 
fully  occupied  among  the  snapdragons  of  the  old 
walls,  the  flowers  of  the  veronica  bushes,  and  the  but- 
tons of  the  tall  hollyhocks  growing  where  they  please. 

When  I  made,  some  years  ago,  a  tour  of  Wessex, 
I  went  to  Casterbridge  on  a  July  day,  and  the  first 
person  I  met  in  the  street  was  an  immense  bee,  and 
I  watched  him  hum  away  into  the  distance  just  as 
Mr.  Hardy  had  described  him.  He  seemed  to  be 
boasting  that  he  was  Mr.  Hardy's  bee,  just  as  a  Pres- 
byterian Minister,  who  had  paid  a  visit  to  the  Holy 
Land  to  verify  his  quotations,  boasted  of  the  reference 
made  to  himself  in  another  Book. 

"  My  dear  friends,"  said  he,  "  I  read  in  the  Sacred 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  25 

Book  the  prophecy  that  the  land  should  be  in  heaps; 
I  looked  up  from  the  page,  and  there,  before  my  very 
eyes,  lay  the  heaps.  I  read  that  the  bittern  should 
cry  there;  I  looked  up,  and  lo!  close  at  hand  stood 
the  bittern.  I  read  that  the  Minister  of  the  Lord 
should  mourn  there:  I  was  that  Minister/' 

But  there  are  two  or  three  gardens — now  that  I 
come  to  think  of  it  there  are  not  so  many  as  three — 
governed  by  the  houses  of  the  "  better-class  people  " 
(so  they  were  described  to  me  when  I  first  came  to 
Yardley  Parva),  which  are  everything  that  a  garden 
should  be.  Their  trees  have  not  been  cut  down  as 
they  used  to  be  forty  years  ago,  to  allow  the  flowers 
to  have  undisputed  possession.  In  each  there  are 
groups  of  sycamore,  elm,  and  silver  birch,  and  their 
position  makes  one  feel  that  one  is  on  the  border  of 
a  woodland  through  which  one  might  wander  for 
hours.  There  are  tulip-trees,  and  a  fine  arbutus  on 
an  irregular,  slightly-sloping  lawn,  and  a  couple  of 
enormous  drooping  ashes — twenty  people  can  sit  in 
the  green  shade  of  either.  In  graceful  groups  there 
are  laburnums  and  lilacs.  Farther  down  the  slope  is 
a  well-conceived  arrangement  of  flower-beds  cut  out 
of  the  grass.  Nearly  everything  in  the  second  of  these 
gardens  is  herbaceous;  but  its  roses  are  invariably 
superb,  and  its  lawn  with  a  small  lily  pond  beside  it, 
is  ideal.  The  specimen  shrubs  on  a  lower  lawn  are 
perfect  as  regards  both  form  and  flower,  and  while 
one  is  aware  of  the  repose  that  is  due  to  a  thoughtful 
scheme  of  colour,  one  is  conscious  only  of  the  effect, 
never  being  compelled  to  make  use  of  the  word  artis- 


26  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

tic.  As  soon  as  people  begin  to  talk  of  a  garden  being 
artistic  you  know  that  it  has  failed  in  its  purpose, 
just  as  a  portrait-painter  has  failed  if  you  are  im- 
pressed with  the  artistic  side  of  what  he  has  done. 
The  garden  is  not  to  illustrate  the  gardener's  art  any 
more  than  the  portrait  is  to  make  manifest  the 
painter's.  The  garden  should  be  full  of  art,  but  so 
artfully  introduced  that  you  do  not  know  that  it  is 
there.  I  have  heard  a  man  say  as  if  he  had  just 
made  a  unique  discovery, — 

"  How  extraordinary  it  is  that  the  arrangements 
of  colour  in  Nature  are  always  harmonious!  " 

Extraordinary! 

Equally  extraordinary  it  is  that 

"Treason  doth  never  prosper;  what's  the  reason? 
For  if  it  prospers  none  dare  call  it  treason." 

All  our  impressions  of  harmony  in  colour  are  de- 
rived from  Nature's  arrangements  of  colour,  and 
when  there  is  no  longer  harmony  there  is  no  longer 
Nature.  Is  it  marvellous  that  Nature  should  be  har- 
monious when  all  our  ideas  of  harmony  are  acquired 
from  Nature?  A  book  might  be  written  on  this  text 
— I  am  not  sure  that  several  books  have  not  been 
written  on  it.  It  is  the  foundation  of  the  analysis  of 
what  may  be  called  without  cant,  "  artistic  impres- 
sion." It  is  because  it  is  so  trite  that  I  touch  upon  it 
in  my  survey  of  a  Garden  of  Peace.  We  love  the 
green  of  the  woodland  because  it  still  conveys  to  us 
the  picture  of  our  happy  home  of  some  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  years  ago.  We  find  beauty  in  an  oval 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  27 

outline  because  our  ancestors  of  the  woodland  spent 
some  happy  hours  bird-nesting.  Hogarth's  line  of 
beauty  is  beautiful  because  it  is  the  line  of  human  life 
— the  line  that  Nature  has  ever  before  her  eyes — the 
line  of  human  love.  The  colours  of  countless  fruits 
are  a  delight  to  us  because  we  have  associated  those 
colours  for  tens  of  thousands  of  years  with  the  delight 
of  eating  those  fruits,  and  taking  pleasure  in  the  tints 
of  the  fruits ;  we  take  pleasure  in  the  tints  of  flowers 
because  they  suggest  the  joys  of  the  fruits.  The 
impression  of  awe  and  fear  that  one  of  Salvator 
Rosa's  "  Rocky  Landscapes  "  engenders  is  due  to  our 
very  distant  ancestors'  experience  of  the  frequent 
earthquakes  that  caused  these  mighty  rocks  to  be 
flung  about  when  the  surface  of  our  old  mother  Earth 
was  not  so  cool  as  it  is  to-day,  as  well  as  to  the 
recollection  of  the  very .  fearsome  moments  of  a  much 
less  remote  ancestor  spent  in  evading  his  carnivorous 
enemies  who  had  their  dens  among  these  awful  rocks. 
From  a  comparatively  recent  pastoral  parent  we  have 
inherited  our  love  for  the  lawn.  There  were  the 
sheep  feeding  in  quiet  on  the  grass  of  the  oasis  in  the 
days  when  man  had  made  the  discovery  that  he  could 
tame  certain  animals  and  keep  them  to  eat  at  his 
leisure  instead  of  having  to  spend  hours  hunting  them 
down. 

But  so  deep  an  impression  have  the  thousands  of 
years  of  hunting  made  upon  the  race,  that  even  among 
the  most  highly  civilised  people  hunting  is  the  most 
popular  of  all  employments,  and  the  hunter  is  a  hero 
while  the  shepherd  is  looked  on  as  a  poor  sort. 


28  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

Yes,  there  are  harmonies  in  Nature,  though  all 
makers  of  gardens  do  not  appreciate  them;  the  dis- 
cordant notes  that  occasionally  assail  a  lover  of  Nature 
in  a  garden  that  has  been  made  by  a  nurseryman  are 
due  to  the  untiring  exertions  of  the  hybridiser.  It  is 
quite  possible  to  produce  "  freaks  "  and  "  sports  " 
both  as  regards  form  and  colour—  "  Prodigious  mix- 
tures and  confusion  strange."  I  believe  that  some 
professional  men  spend  all  their  time  over  experiments 
in  this  direction,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  some  of 
them,  having  perpetrated  a  "  novelty,"  make  money 
out  of  it.  Equally  sure  I  am  that  the  more  conscien- 
tious, when  they  hit  upon  a  novelty  that  they  feel  to 
be  offensive,  destroy  the  product  without  exhibiting 
it.  They  have  not  all  the  hideous  unscrupulousness 
of  Dr.  Moreau — the  nearest  approach  to  a  devil  try- 
ing to  copy  the  Creator  who  made  man  in  His  own 
image.  Dr.  Moreau  made  things  after  his  own  like- 
ness. He  was  a  great  hybridiser.  (Mr.  H.  G.  Wells, 
after  painting  that  Devil  for  us,  has  recently  been 
showing  his  skill  in  depicting  the  God.) 

Now,  every  one  knows  that  the  garden  of  to-day 
owes  most  of  its  glory  to  the  judicious  hybridiser, 
but  I  implore  of  him  to  be  merciful  as  he  is  strong.  I 
have  seen  some  heartrending  results  of  his  experi- 
ments which  have  not  been  suppressed,  as  they  should 
have  been.  I  am  told  that  a  great  deal  in  the  way  of 
developing  the  natural  colours  of  a  certain  group  of 
flowers  can  be  done  by  the  introduction  of  chemicals 
into  their  drinking  water.  It  is  like  poisoning  a  well! 
By  such  means  I  believe  an  unscrupulous  gardener 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  29 

could  turn  a  whole  border  into  something  resembling 
a  gigantic  advertisement  card  of  aniline  dyes. 

But  I  must  be  careful  in  my  condemnations  of  such 
possibilities.  There  is  a  young  woman  named  Rosa- 
mund, who  is  Dorothy's  first-born,  and  she  is  ready 
at  all  seasonable  times  to  give  me  the  benefit  of  her 
fourteen  years'  experiences  of  the  world  and  its  ways, 
and  she  has  her  own  views  of  Nature  as  the  mother 
of  the  Arts.  After  listening  to  my  old-fashioned  rail- 
ings against  such  chromatic  innovations  as  I  have 
abused,  she  maintained  a  thoughtful  silence  that  sug- 
gested an  absence  of  conviction. 

"  Don't  you  see  the  awfulness  of  re-dying  a  flower 
— the  unnaturalness  of  such  an  operation? "  I  cried. 

'  Why,  you  old  thing,  can't  you  see  that  if  it's  done 
by  aniline  dyes  it's  all  right — true  to  Nature  and  all 
that?" 

"  Good  heavens !  that  a  child  of  mine — Dorothy, 
did  you  hear  her?  How  can  you  sit  there  and  smile 
as  if  nothing  had  happened?  Have  you  brought  her 
up  as  an  atheist  or  what? " 

"  Every  one  who  doesn't  agree  with  all  you  say  isn't 
a  confirmed  atheist,"  replied  Dorothy  calmly.  "  As 
for  Rosamund,  what  I'm  afraid  of  is  that,  so  far  from 
being  an  atheist,  she  is  rather  too  much  in  the  other 
direction — like  '  Lo,  the  poor  Indian.'  She'll  explain 
what's  in  her  mind  if  you  give  her  a  chance.  What 
do  you  mean,  my  dear,  by  laying  the  emphasis  on 
aniline  dyes?  Don't  you  know  that  most  of  them 
are  awful? " 

"  Of  course  I  do,  darling,"  said  Rosamund.    "  But 


30  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

I've  been  reading  about  them,  and  so — well,  you  see, 
they  come  from  coal  tar,  and  coal  is  a  bit  of  a  tree 
that  grew  up  and  fell  down  thousands  of  years  ago, 
and  its  burning  is  nothing  more  than  its  giving  back 
the  sunshine  that  it — what  is  the  word  that  the  book 
used? — Oh,  I  remember — the  sunshine  that  it  hoarded 
when  it  was  part  of  the  forest.  Now,  I  think  that  if 
it's  natural  for  flowers  to  be  coloured  by  the  sunshine 
it  doesn't  matter  whether  it's  the  sunshine  of  to-day 
or  the  sunshine  of  fifty  thousand  years  ago;  it  comes 
from  the  sun  all  the  same,  and  as  aniline  dyes  are  the 
sunshine  of  long  ago  it's  no  harm  to  have  them  to 
colour  flowers  now." 

"  Daddy  was  only  complaining  of  the  horrid  ones, 
my  dear,"  said  the  Mother,  without  looking  at  me. 
"  Isn't  that  what  you  meant?  "  she  added,  and  now  she 
looked  at  me,  and  though  I  was  suspicious  that  she 
was  smiling  under  her  skin,  I  could  not  detect  the 
slightest  symptom  of  a  smile  in  her  voice. 

"  Of  course  I  meant  the  hideous  ones — magenta 
and  that  other  sort  of  purple  thing.  I  usually  make 
my  meaning  plain,"  said  I,  with  a  modified  bluster. 

"  Oh,"  remarked  Rosamund,  in  a  tone  that  sug- 
gested a  polite  negation  of  acquiescence. 

There  was  another  little  silence  before  I  said, — 

"Anyhow,  it  was  those  German  brutes  who  de- 
veloped those  aniline  things." 

"  Oh,  yes;  they  could  do  anything  they  pleased  with 
coal  tar,"  said  Dorothy.  "  But  the  other  sort  could 
do  anything  he  pleased  with  the  Germans— and  he 
did!" 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  31 

"  The  other  sort?  "  said  I  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,  the  other  sort — the  true  British  product — 
the  Jack  Tar,"  said  Dorothy;  and  Rosamund,  who 
has  a  friend  who  is  a  midshipman  in  the  Royal  Navy, 
clapped  her  hands  and  laughed. 

It  is  at  such  moments  as  this  that  I  feel  I  am  not 
master  in  my  own  house.  Time  was  when  I  believed 
that  my  supremacy  was  as  unassailable  as  that  of  the 
Lord  High  Admiral;  but  since  those  girls  have  been 
growing  up  I  have  come  to  realise  that  I  have  been 
as  completely  abolished  as  the  Lord  High  Admiral — 
once  absolute,  but  now  obsolete — and  that  the  duties 
of  office  are  discharged  by  a  commission.  The  Board 
of  Admiralty  is  officially  the  Lords  Commissioners 
for  discharging  the  office  of  Lord  High  Admiral. 

I  hope  that  this  menage  will  be  maintained.  The 
man  who  tries  to  impose  his  opinions  upon  a  house- 
hold because  he  is  allowed  to  pay  all  the  expenses,  is 
— anyhow,  he  is  not  me. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRD 

I  BELIEVE  I  interrupted  myself  in  the  midst  of  a  visit 
to  one  of  the  gardens  of  the  "  better-class  people  " 
who  live  in  the  purely  residential  end  of  the  High 
Street.  These  are  the  people  whose  fathers  and 
grandfathers  lived  in  the  same  houses  and  took  a 
prominent  part  in  preparing  the  beacons  which  were 
to  spread  far  and  wide  the  news  that  Bonaparte  had 
succeeded  in  landing  on  their  coast  with  that  marvel- 
lous flotilla  of  his.  And  from  these  very  gardens 
more  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  earlier  the 
still  greater  grandfathers  had  seen  the  blazing 
beacons  that  sent  the  news  flying  northward  that  the 
Invincible  Armada  of  Spain  was  plunging  and  roll- 
ing up  the  Channel,  which  can  be  faintly  seen  by  the 
eye  of  faith  from  the  tower  of  the  Church  of  St.  Mary 
sub-Castro,  at  the  highest  part  of  the  High  Street. 
The  Invincible  Armada!  If  I  should  ever  organise 
an  aggressive  enterprise,  I  certainly  would  not  call  it 
"  Invincible."  It  is  a  name  of  ill  omen.  I  cannot  for 
the  life  of  me  remember  where  I  read  the  story  of 
the  monarch  who  was  reviewing  the  troops  that  he 
had  equipped  very  splendidly  to  go  against  the  Ro- 
mans. When  his  thousand  horsemen  went  glittering 
by  with  polished  steel  cuirasses  and  plumed  helmets 

32 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  33 

— they  must  have  been  the  Household  Cavalry  of  the 
period — his  heart  was  lifted  up  in  pride,  and  he  called 
out  tauntingly  to  his  Grand  Vizier,  who  was  a  bit 
of  a  cynic, — 

"  Ha,  my  friend,  don't  you  think  that  these  will 
be  enough  for  the  Romans?" 

"  Sure,"  was  the  reply.  "  Oh,  yes,  they  will  be 
enough,  avaricious  though  the  Romans  undoubtedly 
are." 

This  was  the  first  of  the  Invincible  enterprises. 
The  next  time  I  saw  the  word  in  history  was  in  asso- 
ciation with  the  Spanish  Armada,  and  to-day,  over 
a  door  in  my  house,  I  have  hung  the  carved  ebony 
ornament  that  belonged  to  a  bedstead  of  one  of  the 
ships  that  went  ashore  at  Spanish  Point  on  the  Irish 
coast.  Later  still,  there  was  a  gang  of  murderers 
who  called  themselves  "  Invincibles,"  and  I  saw  the 
lot  of  them  crowded  into  a  police-court  dock  whence 
they  filed  out  to  their  doom.  And  what  about  the 
last  of  these  ruffians  that  challenged  Fate  with  that 
arrogant  word?  What  of  Hindenburg's  Invincible 
Line  that  we  heard  so  much  about  a  few  months  ago  ? 
"Invincible!"  cried  the  massacre-monger,  and  the 
word  was  repeated  by  the  arch-liar  of  the  mailed  fist 
in  half  a  dozen  speeches.  Within  a  few  months  the 
beaten  mongrels  were  whimpering,  not  like  hounds, 
but  like  hyenas  out  of  whose  teeth  their  prey  is 
plucked.  I  dare  say  that  Achilles,  who  made  brag  a 
speciality,  talked  through  his  helmet  about  that  opera- 
tion on  the  banks  of  the  Styx,  and  actually  believed 
himself  to  be  invincible  because  invulnerable;  but  his 


34  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

mother,  who  had  given  him  the  bath  that  turned  his 
head,  would  not  have  recognised  him  when  Paris  had 
done  with  him. 

The  funny  part  of  the  Hindenburg  cult — I  sup- 
pose it  should  be  written  "  Kult " — was  that  there 
was  no  one  to  tell  the  Germans  that  they  were  doing 
the  work  of  necromancy  in  hammering  those  nails  into 
his  wooden  head.  Everybody  knows  that  the  only 
really  effective  way  of  finishing  off  an  enemy  is  to 
make  a  wooden  effigy  of  him  and  hammer  nails  into 
it  (every  sensible  person  knows  that  as  the  nails  are 
hammered  home  the  original  comes  to  grief).  The 
feminine  equivalent  of  this  robust  operation  is  equally 
effective,  though  the  necromancers  only  recommended 
it  for  the  use  of  schools.  The  effigy  is  made  of  wax, 
and  you  place  it  before  a  cheerful  fire  and  stick  pins 
into  it.  It  has  the  advantage  of  being  handy  and 
economical,  for  there  are  few  households  that  cannot 
produce  an  old  doll  of  wax  which  would  otherwise 
be  thrown  away  and  wasted. 

But  the  Germans  pride  themselves  on  having  got 
rid  of  their  superstition,  and  when  people  have  got 
rid  of  their  superstition  they  have  got  rid  of  their 
sense  of  humour.  If  they  had  not  been  so  hasty  in 
naming  their  invincible  lines  after  Wagner's  operas 
they  would  surely  have  remembered  that  with  the 
Siegfried,  the  Parsifal,  and  the  rest  there  was  bound 
to  be  included  Der  Fliegende  Hollander,  the  pet 
name  of  the  German  Cavalry:  they  were  the  first  to 
fly  when  the  operatic  line  was  broken;  and  then — 
Gotterdammerwig  Hellroter! 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  35 

And  why  were  the  Bolsheviks  so  foolish  as  to  forget 
that  the  Czar  was  "  Nicky "  to  their  paymaster, 
William,  and  that  that  name  is  the  Greek  for  "  Vic- 
ory  "?  Having  destroyed  Nicky,  how  could  they  look 
for  anything  but  disaster? 

The  connection  of  these  jottings  with  our  gardens 
may  not  be  apparent  to  every  one  who  reads  them. 
But  though  the  sense  of  liberty  is  so  great  in  our  Gar- 
den of  Peace  that  I  do  not  hold  myself  bound  down 
to  any  of  the  convenances  of  composition,  and  though 
I  cultivate  rather  than  uproot  even  the  most  flagrant 
forms  of  digression  in  this  garden,  yet  it  so  happens 
that  when  I  begin  to  write  of  the  most  distinguished 
of  the  gardens  of  Yardley  Parva,  I  cannot  avoid 
recalling  that  lovely  Saturday  when  we  were  seated 
among  its  glorious  roses,  eating  peaches  that  had  just 
been  plucked  from  the  wall.  We  were  a  large  and 
chatty  company,  and  among  the  party  that  were 
playing  clock  golf  on  a  part  of  a  lovely  lawn  of  the 
purest  emerald,  there  did  not  seem  to  be  one  who 
had  read  the  menace  of  the  morning  papers.  Our 
host  was  a  soldier,  and  his  charming  wife  was  the 
daughter  of  a  distinguished  Admiral.  At  the  other 
side  of  the  table  where  the  dish  of  peaches  stood  there 
was  another  naval  officer,  and  while  we  were  swap- 
ping stories  of  the  Cape,  the  butler  was  pointing  us 
out  to  a  telegraph  messenger  who  had  come  through 
the  French  window.  The  boy  made  his  way  to  us, 
taking  the  envelope  from  his  belt.  He  looked  from 
one  of  us  to  the  other,  saying  the  name  of  my 
vis-a-vis — "  Commander  A ?  " 


36  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

"I'm  Commander  A "  said  he,  taking 

the  despatch  envelope  and  tearing  it  open. 
He  gave  a  whistle,  reading  his  message,  and 
r.ose. 

"  No  reply,"  he  told  the  messenger,  and  then 
turned  to  me. 

"  Great  King  Jehoshaphat !  "  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 
"  There  is  to  be  no  demobilisation  of  the  Fleet,  and 
all  leave  is  stopped.  I'm  ordered  to  report.  And 
you  said  just  now  that  nothing  was  going  to  happen. 
Good-bye,  old  chap!  I've  got  to  catch  the  6.20  for 
Devonport!" 

We  had  been  talking  over  the  morning's  news,  and 
I  had  said  that  the  Emperor  was  a  master  of  bluff, 
not  business. 

"  I'm  off,"  he  said.  "  You  needn't  say  anything 
that  I've  told  you.  After  all,  it  may  only  be  a  pre- 
cautionary measure." 

He  went  off;  and  I  never  saw  him  again. 

The  precautionary  measure  that  saved  England 
from  the  swoop  that  Germany  hoped  to  bring  off  as 
successfully  as  Japan  did  hers  at  Port  Arthur  in 
1904,  was  taken  not  by  the  First  Lord  of  the  Ad- 
miralty, but  by  Prince  Louis  of  Battenberg,  who  was 
hounded  out  of  the  Service  by  the  clamorous  gossip 
of  a  few  women  who  could  find  no  other  way  of 
proving  their  power. 

And  the  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty  let  him  go; 
while  he  himself  returned  to  his  "  gambling  "  —he  so 
designated  the  most  important — the  most  disastrous 
— incident  of  his  Administration — "  a  legitimate  gam- 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  37 

ble."    A  legitimate  gamble  that  cost  his  country  over 
fifty  thousand  lives! 

Within  a  month  of  the  holding  of  that  garden  party 
our  host  had  marched  away  with  his  men,  and  within 
another  month  our  dear  hostess  was  a  widow. 

That  garden,  I  think,  has  a  note  of  distinction 
about  it  that  is  not  shared  by  any  other  within  the 
circle  taken  by  the  walls  of  the  little  town,  several 
interesting  fragments  of  which  still  remain.  The 
house  by  which  it  was  once  surrounded  before  the  de- 
sire for  "  short  cuts "  caused  a  road  to  be  made 
through  it,  is  by  far  the  finest  type  of  a  minor  Eliza- 
bethan mansion  to  be  found  in  our  neighbourhood. 
It  is  the  sort  of  house  that  the  house-agents  might, 
with  more  accuracy  than  is  displayed  in  many  of  their 
advertisements,  describe  as  "  a  perfect  gem."  It  has 
been  kept  in  good  repair  both  as  regards  its  stone 
walls  and  its  roof  of  stone  slabs  during  the  three  hun- 
dred— or  most  likely  four  hundred  years  of  its  exist- 
ence, and  it  has  not  suffered  from  that  form  of 
destruction  known  as  restoration.  It  had  some  nar- 
row escapes  in  its  time,  however.  An  old  builder 
who  had  been  concerned  in  some  of  the  repairs  shook 
his  head  sadly  when  he  assured  me  that  a  more  pig- 
headed gentleman  than  the  owner  of  the  house  at 
that  time  he  had  never  known. 

"  He  would  have  it  done  with  the  old  material," 
he  explained  sadly.  "  That's  how  it  comes  to  be  like 
what  it  is  to-day."  And  he  nodded  in  the  direction 
of  the  exquisitely-weathered  old  Caen  blocks  with  the 


38 

great  bosses  of  house-leek  covering  the  coping.  "  It 
was  no  use  my  telling  him  that  I  could  run  up  a  nine- 
inch  brick  wall  with  proper  coping  tiles  that  would 
have  a  new  look  for  years  if  no  creepers  were  allowed 
on  it,  for  far  less  money ;  he  would  have  the  old  stone, 
and  those  squared  flints  that  you  see  there." 

"  Some  people  are  very  obstinate,  thank  God ! " 
said  I. 

"  I  could  have  made  as  good  a  job  of  it  as  I  did 
of  St.  Anthony's  Church — you  know  the  new  aisle  in 
St.  Anthony's,  sir,"  said  he. 

I  certainly  did  know  the  new  aisle  in  St.  Anthony's ; 
but  I  did  not  say  that  I  did  in  the  tone  of  voice  in 
which  I  write.  It  is  the  most  notorious  example  of 
what  enormities  could  be  perpetrated  in  the  devastat- 
ing fifties  and  sixties,  when  a  parson  and  his  church- 
wardens could  do  anything  they  pleased  to  their 
churches. 

In  a  very  different  spirit  was  the  Barbican  of  the 
old  Castle  of  Yardley  repaired  under  the  care  of  a 
reverential,  but  not  Reverend,  director.  Every  stone 
was  numbered  and  put  back  into  its  place  when  the 
walls  were  made  secure. 

The  gardens  and  orchards  and  lawns  behind  the 
walls  which  were  reconstructed  by  the  owner  whose 
obstinacy  the  builder  was  lamenting,  must  extend 
over  three  or  four  acres.  Such  a  space  allows  for  a 
deep  enough  fringe  of  noble  trees,  giving  more  than 
a  suggestion  of  a  park-land  which  had  once  had  sev- 
eral vistas  after  the  most  approved  eighteenth  cen- 
tury type,  but  which  have  not  been  maintained  by 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  39 

some  nineteenth  century  owners  who  were  fearful  of 
being  accused  of  tolerating  anything  so  artificial  as 
design  in  their  gardens.  But  the  "  shrubberies  "  have 
been  allowed  to  remain  pretty  much  as  they  were 
planted,  with  magnificent  masses  of  pink  may  and 
innumerable  lilacs.  The  rose-gardens  and  the  mixed 
borders  are  chromatic  records  of  the  varying  tastes  of 
generations. 

What  made  the  strongest  appeal  to  me  when  I 
was  wandering  through  the  grounds  a  year  or  two 
before  that  fatal  August  afternoon  was  the  beauty  of 
the  anchusas.  I  thought  that  I  had  never  seen  finer 
specimens  or  a  more  profuse  variety  of  their  blues. 
One  might  have  been  looking  down  into  the  indigo 
of  the  water  under  the  cliffs  of  Capri  in  one  place, 
and  into  the  delicate  ultramarine  spaces  of  the  early 
morning  among  the  islands  of  the  ^Egean  in  another. 

I  congratulated  one  of  the  gardeners  upon  his 
anchusas,  and  he  smiled  in  an  eminently  questionable 
way. 

"  Maybe  I'm  wrong  in  talking  to  you  about  them," 
I  said,  looking  for  an  explanation  of  his  smile.  "  Per- 
haps it  is  not  you  who  are  responsible  for  this  bit." 

"  It's  not  that,  sir,"  he  said,  still  smiling.  "I'm 
ready  to  take  all  the  responsibility.  You  see,  sir,  I 
was  brought  up  among  anchusas:  I  was  one  of  the 
gardeners  at  Dropmore." 

I  laughed. 

"  If  I  want  to  know  anything  about  growing 
anchusas  I'll  know  where  to  come  for  information," 
I  said. 


40  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

The  great  charm  about  these  gardens,  as  well  as 
those  of  the  Crusaders'  planting  now  enjoyed  by 
the  people  of  the  High  Street,  is  that  among  the 
mystery  of  their  shady  places  one  would  not  be 
surprised  or  alarmed  to  come  suddenly  upon  a  nymph 
or  a  satyr,  or  even  old  Pan  himself.  It  does  not 
require  one  to  be 

"  A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn," 

to  have  such  an  impression  conveyed  to  one,  any 
more  than  it  is  necessary  for  one  to  be  given  over 
exclusively  to  a  diet  of  nuts  and  eggs  to  enjoy,  as  I 
hope  we  all  do,  a  swing  on  a  bough,  or,  as  we  grow 
old,  alas !  on  one  of  those  patent  swings  made  in  Paris, 
U.S.A.,  where  one  gets  all  the  exuberance  of  the 
oscillation  without  the  exertion.  Good  old  Pan  is  not 
dead  yet,  however  insistently  the  poet  may  announce 
his  decease.  He  will  be  the  last  of  all  the  gods  to  go. 
We  have  no  particular  use  for  Jove,  except  as  the 
mildest  form  of  a  swear  word,  nor  for  Neptune,  unless 
we  are  designing  a  fountain  or  need  to  borrow  an 
emblem  of  the  Freedom  of  the  Seas — we  can  even 
carry  on  a  placid  existence  though  Mercury  has  fallen 
so  low  as  to  be  opposite  "  rain  and  stormy  "  on  the 
barometric  scale,  but  we  cannot  do  without  our  Pan 
— the  jolly,  wicked  old  fellow  whom  we  were  obliged 
to  incorporate  in  our  new  theological  system  under 
the  name  of  Diabolus.  It  was  he,  and  not  the  much- 
vaunted  Terpsichore,  who  taught  the  infant  world 
to  dance,  to  gambol,  and  to  riot  in  the  woodland. 
He  is  the  patron  of  the  forest  lovers  still,  as  he  was 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  41 

when  he  first  appeared  in  the  shape  of  an  antelope 
skipping  from  rock  to  rock  while  our  arboreal  an- 
cestors applauded  from  their  boughs  and  were 
tempted  to  give  over  their  ridiculous  swinging  by 
their  hands  and  tails  and  emulate  him  on  our  com- 
mon mother  Earth. 

Is  there  any  one  of  us  to-day,  I  wonder,  who  has 
not  felt  as  Wordsworth  did,  that  the  world  of  men 
and  cities  is  too  much  with  us,  and  that  the  shady 
arbours  hold  something  that  we  need  and  that  we 
cannot  find  otherwhere?  The  claims  of  the  myster- 
ious brotherhood  assert  themselves  daily  when  we  re- 
turn to  our  haunts  of  a  hundred  thousand  years  ago: 
we  can  still  enjoy  a  dance  on  a  woodland  clearing,  and 
a  plunge  into  the  sparkling  lake  by  which  we  dwelt 
for  many  thousand  years  before  some  wretch  found 
that  the  earth  could  be  built  up  into  caves  instead  of 
dug  into  for  domestic  shelter. 

Let  any  one  glance  over  the  illustrated  advertise- 
ments in  Country  Life  and  see  how  frequently  the 
"  old  world  gardens  "  are  set  forth  as  an  irresistible 
attraction  of  "  a  desirable  residence."  The  artful  ad- 
vertisers know  that  the  appeal  of  the  old  world  is 
still  all-powerful,  especially  with  those  who  have  been 
born  in  a  city  and  have  lived  in  a  city  for  years. 
Around  Yardley  there  has  sprung  up  quite  recently 
a  colony  of  red-brick  and,  happily,  red-roofed  villas. 
Nearly  all  have  been  admirably  constructed,  and  with 
an  appreciation  of  the  modern  requirements  in  which 
comfort  and  economy  are  combined.  They  have  all 
gardens,  and  no  two  are  alike  in  every  particular; 


42  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

but  all  are  trim  and  easily  looked  after.  They  pro- 
duce an  abundance  of  flowers,  and  they  are  embow- 
ered in  flowering  shrubs,  every  one  of  which  seems 
to  me  to  be  a  specimen.  More  cheerful  living-places 
could  not  be  imagined ;  but  it  is  not  in  these  gardens 
that  you  need  look  for  the  cloven  vestiges  of  a  faun 
or  the  down  brushed  from  the  butterfly  wings  of  a 
fairy.  Nobody  wants  them  there,  and  there  is  no 
chance  of  any  of  these  wary  folk  coming  where  they 
are  not  wanted.  If  old  Pan  were  to  climb  over  one  of 
these  walls  and  his  footprints  were  discovered  in  the 
calceolaria  bed,  the  master  of  the  house  would  put 
the  matter  in  the  hands  of  the  local  police,  or  write  a 
letter  signed  "  Ratepayer  "  to  the  local  Chronicle,  in- 
quiring how  long  were  highly-taxed  residents  to  be 
subjected  to  such  incursions,  and  blaming  the  "  au- 
thorities "  for  their  laxity. 

But  there  is,  I  repeat,  no  chance  of  the  slumbers 
of  any  of  the  ratepayers  being  disturbed  by  a  blurred 
vision  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  galvanised  cistern, 
or  by  the  blast  of  Triton's  wreathed  horn.  They  will 
not  be  made  to  feel  less  forlorn  by  a  glimpse  of  the 
former,  and  they  would  assuredly  mistake  the  latter 
for  the  hooter  of  Simpson's  saw-mill. 

"  The  authorities  "  look  too  well  after  the  villas, 
and  the  very  suggestion  of  "  authorities  "  would  send 
Proteus  and  Triton  down  to  the  deepest  depths  they 
had  ever  sounded.  They  only  come  where  they  are 
wanted  and  waited  for.  It  takes  at  least  four  gen- 
erations of  a  garden's  growth  to  allow  of  the  twisted 
boughs  of  the  oak  or  the  chestnut  turning  into  the 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  43 

horns  of  a  satyr,  or  of  the  gnarled  roots  becoming 
his  dancing  shanks. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  intelligent  of  the  ratepayers 
of  these  bright  and  well-kept  "  residences  "  who  took 
me  to  task  for  a  very  foolish  statement  he  had  found 
in  a  novel  of  mine  (6d.  edition)  which  he  said  he  had 
glanced  at  for  a  few  minutes  while  he  was  waiting 
for  a  train.  I  had  been  thoughtless  enough  to  make 
one  of  the  personages,  an  enterprising  stockbroker, 
advocate  the  promotion  of  a  company  for  the  salvage 
of  the  diamonds  which  he  had  been  told  Queen  Guine- 
vere flung  into  the  river  before  the  appearance  of 
the  barge  with  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat  drifting  to  the 
landing-place  below  the  terrace. 

"But  you  know  they  were  not  real  diamonds — only 
the  diamonds  of  the  poet's  imagination,"  he  said. 

"  I  do  believe  you  are  right,"  said  I,  when  I  saw 
that  he  was  in  earnest.  And  then  the  mongoose  story 
came  to  my  mind.  "  They  were  not  real  diamonds," 
I  said.  "  But  then  the  man  wasn't  a  real  company 
promoter." 


CHAPTER  THE  FOURTH 

Two  hundred  years  is  not  a  -long  time  to  look  back 
upon  in  the  history  of  Yardley  Parva:  but  it  must 
have  been  about  two  hundred  years  ago  that  there 
were  in  the  High  Street  some  houses  of  distinction. 
They  belonged  to  noblemen  who  had  also  mansions 
in  the  county,  but  who  were  too  sociable  and  not 
sufficiently  fond  of  books  to  be  resigned  to  such  iso- 
lation from  their  order  as  a  mansion  residence  made 
compulsory.  In  the  little  town  they  were  in  touch 
with  society  of  a  sort:  they  could  have  their  whist  or 
piquet  or  faro  with  their  own  set  every  afternoon, 
and  compare  their  thirsts  at  dinner  later  in  the  day. 

One  of  these  modest  residences  of  a  ducal  family 
faces  the  street  to-day,  after  suffering  many  vicissi- 
tudes, but  with  the  character  of  its  fa£ade  unimpaired. 
The  spacious  ground-floor  has  been  turned  into  shops 
—it  would  be  more  correct  to  say  that  the  shops  had 
been  turned  into  the  ground-floor,  for  structurally 
there  has  been  no  drastic  removal  of  walls  or  beams. 
It  has  not  been  subjected  to  any  violent  evisceration, 
only  to  a  minor  gastric  operation — say  for  appendi- 
citis. On  the  upper  floors  the  beautiful  proportions 
of  the  rooms  remain  uninjured,  and  the  mantelpieces 
and  the  cornices  have  also  been  preserved. 

44 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  45 

The  back  of  this  house  gives  on  to  a  part  of  the 
dry  moat  from  which  the  screen-wall  of  our  Castle 
rises,  for  Yardley  had  once  a  Castle  of  its  own,  and 
picturesque  remnants  of  the  Keep,  the  great  gate- 
way, and  the  walls  remain  with  us.  Forty  feet  from 
the  bed  of  the  moat  on  this  side  the  walls  rise,  and 
the  moat  must  have  been  the  site  of  the  gardens  of 
the  ducal  house,  curving  to  right  and  left  for  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards,  and  his  lordship  saw  his  chance  for 
indulging  in  one  of  the  most  transfiguring  fads  of 
his  day  by  making  two  high  and  broad  terraces  against 
the  walls,  thereby  creating  an  imposing  range  of  those 
hanging  gardens  that  we  hear  so  much  of  in  old  gar- 
dening books.  The  Oriental  tradition  of  hanging 
gardens  may  have  been  brought  to  Europe  with  one 
of  those  wares  of  Orientalism  that  were  the  result  of 
the  later  crusades;  for  assuredly  at  one  time  the  re- 
ported splendours  of  Babylon,  Nineveh,  and  Eck- 
batana  in  this  direction  were  emulated  by  the  great 
in  many  places  of  the  West,  where  the  need  for  the 
protection  of  the  great  Norman  castles  was  begin- 
ning to  wane,  and  the  high,  bare  walls  springing  from 
the  fosses,  dry  and  flooded,  looked  gaunt  and  grim 
just  where  people  wanted  a  more  genial  outlook. 

Powis  Castle  is  the  best  example  I  can  think  of  in 
this  connection.  No  one  who  has  seen  the  hanging 
gardens  of  these  old  walls  can  fail  to  appreciate  how 
splendidly  effective  must  have  been  the  appearance 
of  the  terraces  of  Yardley  when  viewed  from  the  moat 
below.  But  in  the  course  of  time,  as  the  roads  im- 
proved, making  locomotion  easier,  the  ducal  mansion 


46  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

was  abandoned  in  favour  of  another  some  miles  nearer 
the  coast,  and  the  note  of  exclusiveness  being  gone 
from  the  shadow  of  the  Castle  walls,  the  terraces 
ceased  to  be  cultivated ;  the  moat  being  on  a  level  with 
the  High  Street,  it  became  attractive  as  a  site  of  every- 
day houses,  until  in  the  course  of  time  there  sprang 
up  a  row,  and  then  a  public-house  or  two,  and  cor- 
porate offices  and  law-courts  that  only  required  a 
hanging  garden  at  assize  times,  when  smugglers  and 
highwaymen  were  found  guilty  of  crimes  that  made 
such  a  place  desirable — all  these  backed  themselves 
into  the  moat  until  it  had  to  be  recognised  as  a  public 
lane  though  a  cul-de-sac  as  it  is  to-day.  At  the  foot 
of  the  once  beautiful  terraces  outhouses  and  stables 
were  built  as  they  were  needed,  with  the  happiest 
irregularity,  but  joined  by  a  flint  wall  over  which 
the  straggling  survivors  of  the  trees  and  fruits  of  the 
days  gone  by  hang  skeleton  branches.  One  doorway 
between  two  of  the  stables  opens  upon  a  fine  stair- 
way made  of  solid  blocks  of  Portland  stone,  leading 
into  a  gap  in  the  screen-wall  of  the  Castle,  the  ter- 
race being  to  right  and  left,  and  giving  access  to  the 
grounds  beyond,  the  appreciative  possessor  of  which 
writes  these  lines.  Sic  transit  gloria.  Another  stone 
stairway  serves  the  same  purpose  at  a  different  place ; 
but  all  the  other  ascents  are  of  brick  and  probably 
only  date  back  to  the  eighteenth  century.  They  lead 
to  some  elevated  but  depressing  chicken-runs. 

I  called  the  attention  of  our  chief  local  antiquarian 
to  the  succession  of  broad  terraces  and  suggested  their 
decorative  origin.  He  shook  his  head  and  assured 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  47 

me  that  they  were  ages  older  than  the  ducal  residence 
in  the  High  Street.  They  belonged  to  the  Norman 
period  and  were  coeval  with  the  Castle  walls.  When 
I  told  him  that  I  was  at  a  loss  to  know  why  the  Nor- 
man builder  should  first  raise  a  screen-wall  forty  feet 
up  from  a  moat,  to  make  it  difficult  for  an  enemy  to 
scale,  and  then  go  to  an  amazing  amount  of  trouble 
to  make  it  easily  accessible  to  quite  a  large  attacking 
force  by  a  long  range  of  terraces,  he  smiled  the  smile 
of  the  local  antiquarian — a  kindly  toleration  of  the 
absurdities  of  the  tyro — saying, — 

"My  dear  sir,  they  would  not  mind  such  an  attack. 
They  could  always  repel  it  by  throwing  stones  down 
from  the  top — it's  ten  feet  thick  there — yes,  heavy 
stones,  and  melted  lead,  and  boiling  water." 

I  did  not  want  to  throw  cold  water  upon  his  re- 
searches as  to  the  defence  of  a  mediaeval  stronghold, 
so  I  thanked  him  for  his  information.  He  disclaimed 
all  pretensions  to  exclusive  knowledge,  and  said  that 
he  would  be  happy  to  tell  me  anything  else  that  I 
wanted  to  learn  about  such  things. 

I  could  not  resist  expressing  my  fear  to  him,  as  we 
were  parting,  that  the  Water  Company  would  not 
sanction  the  domestic  supply  from  the  kitchen  boiler 
being  used  outside  the  house  for  defensive  purposes; 
but  he  stilled  my  doubts  by  an  assurance  that  in  those 
days  there  was  no  Water  Company.  This  was  well 
enough  so  far  as  it  went,  but  when  I  asked  where  the 
Castle  folk  got  their  water  if  there  was  no  Company 
to  supply  it,  he  was  slightly  staggered,  I  could  see; 
but,  recovering  himself,  he  said  there  would  certainly 


48  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

have  been  a  Sussex  dew-pond  within  the  precincts, 
and,  as  every  one  knew,  this  was  never  known  to  dry 

up. 

I  did  not  say  that  in  this  respect  they  had  something 
in  common  with  local  antiquarians;  but  asked  him  if 
it  was  true  that  swallows  spent  the  winter  in  the  mud 
at  the  bottom  of  these  ponds.  He  told  me  gravely 
that  he  doubted  if  this  could  be;  for  there  was  not 
enough  mud  in  even  the  largest  dew-pond  to  accom- 
modate all  the  swallows.  So  I  saw  that  he  was  as 
sound  a  naturalist  as  he  was  an  antiquarian. 

By  the  way,  I  wonder  how  White  of  Selborne  got 
that  idea  about  the  swallows  hibernating  in  the  mud 
at  the  bottom  of  ponds.  When  so  keen  a  naturalist 
as  White  could  believe  that,  one  feels  tempted  to  ask 
what  is  truth,  and  if  it  really  is  to  be  found,  as  the 
swallows  are  not,  at  the  bottom  of  a  well.  One  could 
understand  Dr.  Johnson's  crediting  the  swallow  the- 
ory, and  discrediting  the  story  of  the  great  earth- 
quake at  Lisbon,  for  he  had  his  own  lines  of  credence 
and  incredulity,  and  he  was  what  somebody  called  "  a 
harbitrary  gent  " ;  but  for  White  to  have  accepted  and 
promulgated  such  an  absurdity  is  indeed  an  amazing 
thing. 

But,  for  that  matter,  who,  until  trustworthy  evi- 
dence was  forthcoming  a  few  months  ago,  ever 
fancied  that  English  swallows  went  as  far  south  as 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope?  This  is  now,  however,  an 
established  fact;  but  I  doubt  if  White  of  Selborne 
would  have  accepted  it,  no  matter  what  evidence  was 
claimed  for  its  accuracy.  Several  times  when  aboard 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  49 

ship  off  the  Cape  I  have  made  pets  of  swallows  that 
came  to  us  and  remained  in  the  chief  saloon  so  long 
as  there  was  a  fly  to  be  found ;  and  once  in  the  month 
of  October,  on  the  island  of  St.  Helena,  I  watched 
the  sudden  appearance  of  a  number  of  the  same  birds ; 
but  it  was  never  suggested  that  they  had  come  from 
England.  I  think  I  have  seen  them  at  Madeira  in 
the  month  of  January,  but  I  am  not  quite  certain 
about  my  dates  in  regard  to  this  island;  but  I  know 
that  when  riding  through  Baines'  Kloof  in  South 
Africa,  quite  early  in  January,  swallows  were  flying 
about  me  in  scores. 

What  a  pity  it  seems  that  people  with  a  reputation 
for  wisdom  were  for  so  long  content  to  think  of  the 
swallows  only  as  the  messengers  of  a  love  poem:  the 
"  swallow  sister — oh,  fleet,  sweet  swallow,"  or  the 
"  swallow,  swallow,  flying,  flying  south  " — instead  of 
piling  up  data  respecting  the  wonder  of  their  ways! 
The  same  may  be  said  of  the  nightingale,  and  may 
the  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  souls  of  those  who  say  it ! 

Are  we  to  be  told  to  be  ready  to  exchange  Itylus 
for  a  celluloid  tab  with  a  date  on  it?  or  Keats's  Ode 
for  a  corrected  notation  of  the  nightingale's  trills? 
At  the  same  time  might  not  a  poet  now  and  again 
take  to  heart  the  final  lines — the  summing  up  of  the 
next  most  beautiful  Ode  in  the  language — 

"  Beauty  is  Truth,  Truth  beauty  "? 

Every  fact  in  Nature  seems  to  me  to  lead  in  the 
direction  of  poetry,  and  to  increase  the  wonder  of 
that  of  which  man  is  but  an  insignificant  part.  We 


50  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

are  only  beginning  to  know  a  little  about  the  part 
we  were  designed  to  play  in  Nature,  but  the  more  we 
know  the  more  surprised,  and,  indeed,  alarmed,  we 
must  be  when  by  a  revelation  its  exact  position  is 
made  known  to  us.  We  have  not  yet  learned  to  live. 
We  have  been  fools  enough  to  cultivate  the  forgetting 
of  how  to  do  things  that  we  were  able  to  do  thou- 
sands of  years  ago.  The  half  of  our  senses  have  been 
atrophied.  It  is  many  years  since  we  first  began  to 
take  leave  of  our  senses  and  we  have  been  at  it  ever 
since.  It  is  about  time  that  we  started  recognising 
that  an  acquaintance  with  the  facts  of  Nature  is  the 
beginning  of  wisdom.  We  crystallised  our  ignorance 
in  phrases  that  have  been  passed  on  from  father  to 
son,  and  quoted  at  every  opportunity.  We  refer  to 
people  being  "  blind  as  a  bat,"  and  to  others  being— 
as  "  bold  as  a  lion,"  or  "  harmless  as  a  dove."  Did 
it  never  strike  the  inventor  of  any  of  these  similes 
that  it  would  be  well  before  scattering  them  abroad 
to  find  out  if  they  were  founded  on  fact?  The  eye- 
sight of  the  bat  is  a  miracle.  How  such  a  creature 
can  get  a  living  for  the  whole  year  during  the  sum- 
mer months  is  amazing.  The  lion  is  a  cowardly  brute 
that  runs  away  yelling  at  the  sight  of  a  rhinoceros 
and  submits  without  complaint  to  the  insults  of  the 
elephant.  A  troop  of  doves  will  do  more  harm  to 
a  wheat-field  in  an  hour  than  does  a  thunderstorm. 

And  the  curious  thing  is  that  in  those  quarters 
where  one  would  expect  to  find  wisdom  respecting 
such  incidents  of  Nature  one  finds  foolishness.  Ten 
centuries  of  gamekeepers  advertise  their  ignorance  in 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  51 

documentary  evidence  nailed  to  the  barn  doors;  they 
have  been  slaughtering  their  best  friends  all  these 
years  and  they  continue  doing  so. 

After  formulating  this  indictment  I  opened  my 
Country  Life,  and  found  in  its  pages  a  confirmation 
of  my  evidence  by  my  friend  F.  C.  G.,  who  is  prov- 
ing himself  in  his  maturity  as  accomplished  a  Natur- 
alist as,  in  his  adolescence,  he  was  a  caricaturist  in  the 
Westminster  Gazette.  These  are  his  lines : — 


THE  GAMEKEEPER'S  GIBBET 

Two  stoats,  a  weasel,  and  a  jay, 

In  varied  stages  of  decay, 

Are  hanging  on  the  gibbet-tree 

For  all  the  woodland  folk  to  see, 

And  tattered  rags  swing  to  and  fro 

Remains  of  what  was  once  a  crow. 

What  were  their  crimes  that  when  they  died 

The  Earth  was  not  allowed  to  hide 

Their  mangled  corpses  out  of  sight, 

Instead  of  dangling  in  the  light? 

They  didn't  sin  against  the  Law 

Of  "  Nature  red  in  tooth  and  claw," 

But  'gainst  the  edicts  of  the  keeper 

Who  plays  the  part  of  Death  the  Reaper, 

And  doth  with  deadly  gun  determine 

What  creatures  shall  be  classed  as  vermin. 

Whether  we  gibbets  find,  or  grace, 

Depends  on  accident  of  place, 

For  what  is  vice  in  Turkestan 

May  be  a  virtue  in  Japan. 

F.  C.  G. 


52  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

And  what  about  gardeners?  Why,  quite  recently 
I  was  solemnly  assured  by  one  of  the  profession  that 
I  should  "  kill  without  mercy  "  —those  were  his  words 
— every  frog  or  toad  I  found  in  a  greenhouse ! 

But  for  that  matter,  don't  we  remember  the  harsh 
decrees  of  our  pastors  and  masters  when  as  children 
we  yielded  to  an  instinct  that  had  not  yet  been  atro- 
phied, and  slaughtered  all  the  flies  that  approached  us. 
I  remember  that,  after  a  perceptor's  reasoning  with 
me  through  the  medium  of  a  superannuated  razor- 
strop,  I  was  told  that  to  kill  a  bluebottle  was  a  sin. 
Now  science  has  come  to  the  rescue  of  the  new  gen- 
eration from  the  consequences  of  the  ignorance  of  the 
old,  and  the  boy  who  kills  most  flies  in  the  course  of 
a  season  is  handsomely  rewarded.  What  is  pro- 
nounced a  sin  in  one  generation  is  looked  on  as  a  vir- 
tue in  the  next. 

I  recollect  seeing  it  stated  in  a  Zoology  for  the  Use 
of  Schools,  compiled  by  an  F.R.S.,  with  long  quota- 
tions from  Milton  at  the  head  of  every  chapter,  that 
the  reason  why  some  fishes  of  the  Tropics  were  so 
gorgeously  coloured  was  to  enable  them  to  be  more 
easily  seen  by  the  voracious  enemy  that  was  pursu- 
ing them.  That  was  why  God  had  endowed  the  glow- 
worm with  his  glow — to  give  him  a  better  chance  of 
attracting  the  attention  of  the  nightingale  or  any 
other  bird  that  did  not  go  to  roost  before  dark!  And 
God  had  also  given  the  firefly  its  spark  that  it  might 
display  its  hospitality  to  the  same  birds  that  had  been 
entertained  by  the  glow-worm!  My  informant  had 
not  mastered  the  alphabet  of  Nature. 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  53 

Long  after  I  had  tried  to  see  things  through  Dar» 
win's  eyes  I  was  perplexed  by  watching  a  cat  trying 
to  get  the  better  of  a  sparrow  in  the  garden.  I  no- 
ticed that  every  time  it  had  crouched  to  make  its 
pounce  the  cat  waved  its  tail.  Why  on  earth  it  should 
try  to  make  itself  conspicuous  in  this  way  when  it  was 
flattening  itself  into  the  earth  that  was  nearest  to  it 
in  colour,  and  writhing  towards  its  prey,  seemed  to 
me  remarkable.  Once,  however,  I  was  able  to  watch 
the  cat  approach  when  I  was  seated  beyond  where 
the  sparrow  was  digging  up  worms,  and  the  cat  had 
slipped  among  the  lower  boughs  of  an  ash  covered 
with  trembling  leaves. 

There  among  the  trembling  leaves  I  saw  another 
trembling  leaf — the  soothing,  swaying  end  of  my 
cat's  tail;  but  if  I  had  not  known  that  it  was  there 
I  should  not  have  noticed  it  apart  from  the  moving 
leaves.  The  bird  with  all  its  vigilance  was  deceived, 
and  it  was  in  the  cat's  jaws  in  another  moment. 

And  I  had  been  calling  that  cat — and,  incidentally, 
Darwin — a  fool  for  several  years!  I  do  not  know 
what  my  Zoologist  "  for  the  Use  of  Schools  "  would 
have  made  of  the  transaction.  Would  he  have  said 
that  a  cat  abhorred  the  sin  of  lying,  and  scorned  to 
take  advantage  of  the  bird,  but  gave  that  graceful 
swing  to  its  tail  to  make  the  bird  aware  of  its  men- 
acing proximity? 

I  lived  for  eleven  years  in  a  house  in  Kensington 
with  quite  a  spacious  garden  behind  it,  and  was  blest 
for  several  years  by  the  company  of  a  pair  of  black- 
birds that  made  their  nest  among  the  converging  twigs 


54  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

of  a  high  lilac.  No  cat  could  climb  that  tree  in  spring, 
as  I  perceived  when  I  had  watched  the  frustrated  at- 
tempts of  the  splendid  blue  Persian  who  was  my  con- 
stant companion.  Of  course  I  lived  in  that  garden 
for  hours  every  day  during  the  months  of  April,  May, 
June,  and  July,  and  we  guarded  the  nest  very  closely, 
even  going  so  far  as  to  disturb  the  balance  of  Nature 
by  sending  the  cat  away  on  a  visit  when  the  young 
birds  were  being  fledged.  But  one  month  of  May 
arrived,  and  though  I  noticed  the  parent  blackbirds 
occasionally  among  the  trees  and  shrubs,  I  never  once 
saw  them  approaching  the  old  nest,  which,  as  in  pre- 
vious seasons,  was  smothered  out  of  sight  in  the  fol- 
iage about  it,  for  a  poplar  towered  above  the  lilac, 
and  was  well  furnished. 

I  remarked  to  my  man  that  I  was  afraid  our  black- 
birds had  deserted  us  this  year,  and  he  agreed  with 
me.  But  one  day  early  in  June  I  saw  the  cat  look 
wistfully  up  the  lilac. 

"  He  hasn't  forgotten  the  nest  that  was  there,"  I 
said.  "  But  I'm  sure  he'll  find  out  in  which  of  the 
neighbouring  gardens  the  new  one  has  been  built." 

But  every  day  he  came  out  and  gazed  up  as  if  into 
the  depths  of  the  foliage  above  our  heads. 

"  Ornithology  is  his  hobby,"  said  I,  "  but  he's  not 
so  smart  as  I  fancied,  or  he  would  be  hustling  around 
the  other  gardens  where  he  should  know  murder  can 
be  done  with  impunity." 

The  next  day  my  man  brought  out  a  pair  of  steps, 
and  placing  them  firmly  under  the  lilac,  ascended  to 
the  level  of  where  the  nest  had  been  in  former  years. 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  55 

At  once  there  came  the  warning  chuckle  of  the  black- 
birds from  the  boughs  of  the  poplar. 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul !  There  are  four  young  ones 
in  the  nest,  and  they're  nearly  ready  to  fly,"  sang  out 
the  investigator  from  above,  and  the  parents  cor- 
roborated every  word  from  the  poplar. 

I  was  amazed.  It  seemed  impossible  that  I  could 
have  sat  writing  under  that  tree  day  after  day  for  two 
months,  watching  for  signs  that  the  birds  were  there, 
and  yet  fail  to  notice  them  at  their  work  either  of 
hatching  or  feeding.  It  was  not  carelessness  or  in- 
difference they  had  eluded;  it  was  vigilance.  I  had 
looked  daily  for  their  coming,  and  there  was  no  fine 
day  in  which  I  was  not  in  the  garden  for  four  hours, 
practically  immovable,  and  the  nest  was  not  more 
than  ten  feet  from  the  ground,  yet  I  had  remained 
in  ignorance  of  all  that  was  going  on  above  my  head ! 

With  such  an  experience  I  do  not  think  that  it 
becomes  me  to  sneer  too  definitely  at  the  stupidity 
of  gamekeepers  or  farmers.  It  is  when  I  read  as  I 
do  from  week  to  week  in  Country  Life  of  the  labor- 
ious tactics  of  those  photographers  who  have  brought 
us  into  closer  touch  with  the  secret  life  of  birds  than 
all  the  preceding  generations  of  naturalists  succeeded 
in  doing,  that  I  feel  more  charitably  disposed  toward 
the  men  who  mistake  friends  for  foes  in  the  air. 

Every  year  I  give  prizes  to  the  younger  members 
of  our  household  to  induce  them  to  keep  their  eyes 
and  their  ears  open  to  their  fellow-creatures  who  may 
be  seen  and  heard  at  times.  The  hearing  of  the 
earliest  cuckoo  meets  with  its  reward,  quite  apart 


56  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

from  the  gratifying  of  an  aesthetic  sense  by  the  quot- 
ing of  Wordsworth.  The  sighting  of  the  first  swal- 
lows is  quoted  somewhat  lower  on  the  chocolate  ex- 
change, but  the  market  recovers  almost  to  a  point 
of  buoyancy  on  hearing  the  nightingale.  The  cuckoo 
is  an  uncertain  customer  and  requires  some  looking 
after;  but  the  swallows  are  marvellously  punctual. 
We  have  never  seen  them  in  our  neighbourhood  be- 
fore April  the  nineteenth.  For  five  years  the  Twenty- 
first  is  recorded  as  their  day.  The  nightingale  does 
not  visit  our  garden,  which  is  practically  in  the  middle 
of  the  town ;  but  half  a  mile  away  one  is  heard  almost 
every  year.  Upon  one  happy  occasion  it  was  seen  as 
well  as  heard,  which  constituted  a  standard  of  recog- 
nition not  entertained  before. 

I  asked  for  an  opinion  of  the  bird  from  the  two 
girls  who  had  had  this  stroke  of  luck. 

Each  took  a  different  standpoint  in  regard  to  its 
attainments. 

"  I  never  heard  anything  so  lovely  in  all  my  life," 
said  Rosamund,  aged  ten.  "  It  made  you  long  to — 
to — I  don't  know  what.  It  was  lovely." 

"  And  what  was  your  opinion,  Olive?  "  I  asked  of 
the  second  little  girl. 

My  Olive  branch  looked  puzzled  for  a  few  min- 
utes, but  she  had  the  sense  to  perceive  that  compara- 
tive criticism  is  safe,  when  a  departure  from  the 
beaten  track  is  contemplated.  Her  departure  was 
parabolic. 

;<  I  didn't  think  it  half  as  pretty  a  bird  as  Miss 
Midleton's  parrot,"  she  said  with  conviction. 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  57 

Miss  Midleton's  parrot  is  a  gorgeous  conglomera- 
tion of  crimson  and  blue,  like  the  'at  of  'arriet,  that 
should  be  looked  at  through  smoked  glasses  and  heard 
not  at  all. 

I  think  that  I  shall  have  Olive  educated  to  take  her 
place  in  a  poultry  run;  while  Rosamund  looks  after 
the  rose  garden. 

•  ••*••• 

My  antiquary  came  to  me  early  on  the  day  after 
I  had  asked  him  for  information  about  the  hanging 
gardens. 

"  I've  been  talking  to  my  friend  Thompson  on  the 
subject  of  those  hanging  gardens  of  the  Duke's,"  said 
he ;  "  and  I  thought  that  you  would  like  to  hear  what 
he  says.  He  agrees  with  me — I  fancied  he  would. 
The  Duke  had  no  power  to  hang  any  one  in  his  gar- 
dens, Thompson  says ;  and  even  if  he  had  the  power, 
the  pear-trees  that  we  see  there  now  weren't  big 
enough  to  hang  a  man  on." 

"  A  man — a  man !  My  dear  sir,  I  wasn't  thinking 
of  his  hanging  men  there:  it  was  clothes — clothes — 
linen — pants — shirts — pajamas,  and  the  like." 

"  Oh,  that's  quite  another  matter,"  said  he. 

I  agreed  with  him. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTH 

IN  a  foregoing  page  I  brought  those  who  are  ready 
to  submit  to  my  guidance  up  to  the  boundary  wall  of 
my  Garden  of  Peace  by  the  stone  staircases  sloping 
between  the  terraces  of  the  old  hanging  gardens  of 
the  Castle  moat.  With  apologies  for  such  a  furtive 
approach  I  hasten  to  admit  them  through  the  entrance 
that  is  in  keeping  with  their  rank  and  station.  I  bow 
them  through  the  Barbican  Entrance,  which  is  of  it- 
self a  stately  tower,  albeit  on  the  threshold  of  mod- 
ernity, having  been  built  in  the  reign  of  Edward  II., 
really  not  more  than  six  hundred  years  ago.  I  feel 
inclined  to  apologise  for  mentioning  this  structure  of 
yesterday  when  I  bring  my  friends  on  a  few  yards  to 
the  real  thing — the  true  Castle  gateway,  gloriously 
gaunt  and  grim,  with  the  grooves  for  the  portcullis 
and  the  hinges  on  which  the  iron-barbed  gate  once 
swung.  There  is  no  suggestion  in  its  architecture  of 
that  effeminacy  of  the  Perpendicular  Period,  which 
may  be  seen  in  the  projecting  parapet  of  the  Barbi- 
can, pierced  to  allow  of  the  molten  lead  of  my  an- 
tiquary being  ladled  out  over  the  enemy  who  has  not 
been  baffled  by  the  raising  of  the  drawbridge.  Molten 
lead  is  well  enough  in  its  way,  and  no  doubt,  when 
brought  up  nice  and  warm  from  the  kitchen,  and  al- 

58 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  59 

lowed  to  drop  through  the  apertures,  it  was  more  or 
less  irritating  as  it  ran  off  the  edge  of  the  helmets 
below  and  began  to  trickle  down  the  backs  of  an 
attacking  party.  The  body-armour  was  never  skin- 
tight, and  molten  lead  has  had  at  all  times  an  annoy- 
ing way  of  finding  out  the  joinings  in  a  week-day  coat 
of  mail;  we  know  how  annoying  the  drip  of  a  neigh- 
bour's umbrella  can  be  when  it  gets  through  the  de- 
fence of  one's  mackintosh  collar  and  meanders  down 
one's  back. — No,  not  a  word  should  be  said  against 
molten  lead  as  a  sedative;  but  even  its  greatest  ad- 
mirers must  allow  that  as  a  medium  of  discourage- 
ment to  an  enemy  of  ordinary  sensitiveness  it  lacked 
the  robustness  of  the  falling  Rock. 

iThe  Decorative  note  of  the  Perpendicular  period 
may  have  been  in  harmony  with  such  trifling  as  is 
incidental  to  molten  lead,  but  the  stern  and  uncom- 
promising Early  Norman  gate  would  defend  itself 
only  with  the  Rock.  That  was  its  character;  and 
when  a  few  hundredweight  of  solid  unsculptured  stone 
were  dropped  from  its  machicolated  parapet  upon 
the  armed  men  who  were  riddling  with  the  lock  of  the 
gate  below,  the  people  in  the  High  Street  could  hardly 
have  heard  themselves  chatting  across  that  thorough- 
fare on  account  of  the  noise,  and  tourists  must  have 
fancied  that  there  was  a  boiler  or  two  being  repaired 
by  a  conscientious  staff  anxious  to  break  the  riveting 
record. 

Everything  remains  of  the  Castle  gateway  except 
the  Gate.  The  structure  is  some  forty  feet  high  and 
twelve  feet  thick.  The  screen- wall  was  joined  to  it 


60  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

on  both  sides,  and  when  you  pass  under  the  arch  and 
through  a  more  humble  doorway  in  the  wall  you  are 
at  the  entrance  to  my  Garden  of  Peace. 

This  oaken  door  has  a  little  history  of  its  own.  For 
several  years  after  I  came  to  Yardley  Parva  I  used 
to  stand  opposite  to  it  in  one  of  the  many  narrow  lanes 
leading  to  the  ramparts  of  the  town.  I  knew  that  the 
building  to  which  it  belonged,  and  where  some  humble 
industry  was  carried  on,  embodied  the  ancient  church 
of  Ste.  Ursula-in-Foro.  The  stone  doorway  is  illus- 
trated in  an  old  record  of  the  town,  and  I  saw  where 
the  stone  had  been  worn  away  by  the  Crusaders  sharp- 
ening the  barbs  of  their  arrows  on  it  for  luck.  I  had 
three  carefully  thought-out  plans  for  acquiring  this 
door  and  doorway;  but  on  consideration  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  they  were  impracticable,  unless  an- 
other Samson  were  to  come  among  us  with  all  the  ex- 
perience of  his  Gaza  feat. 

I  had  ceased  to  pass  through  that  ancient  lane;  it 
had  become  too  much  for  me ;  when  suddenly  I  noticed 
building  operations  going  on  at  the  place;  a  Cinema 
palace  was  actually  being  constructed  on  the  conse- 
crated site  of  the  ancient  church!  Happily  the  door 
and  the  doorway  were  not  treated  as  material  for  the 
housebreaker;  they  were  removed  into  the  cellar  of 
the  owner  of  the  property,  and  from  him  they  were 
bought  by  me  for  a  small  sum — much  less  than  I 
should  have  had  to  pay  for  the  shaped  stones  alone. 
The  oak  door  I  set  in  the  wall  of  my  house,  and  the 
doorway  I  brought  down  my  garden  where  it  now 
features  as  an  arch  spanning  one  of  the  paths. 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  61 

But  my  good  fortune  did  not  end  here;  for  a  few 
years  later  a  fine  keystone  with  a  sculptured  head  of 
Ste.  Ursula  was  dug  up  in  the  little  garden  behind 
the  site  of  the  tiny  church,  and  was  presented  to  me 
with  the  most  important  fragments  of  two  deeply- 
carved  capitals  such  as  one  now  and  again  sees  at  the 
entrance  to  a  Saxon  Church ;  and  so  at  last  these  pre- 
cious relics  of  mediaeval  piety  are  joined  together  after 
a  disjunctive  interval  of  perhaps  five  or  six  hundred 
years,  and,  moreover,  on  a  spot  not  more  than  a  few 
hundred  feet  from  where  they  had  originally  been 
placed. 

Sir  Martin  Conway  told  some  years  ago  of  his  re- 
markable discovery  in  the  grounds  of  an  English 
country  house,  of  one  of  the  missing  capitals  of  Theo- 
docius,  with  its  carved  acanthus  leaves  blown  by  the 
wind  and  the  monogram  of  Theodocius  himself.  A 
more  astounding  discovery  than  this  can  hardly  be 
imagined.  No  one  connected  with  it  was  able  to  say 
how  it  found  its  way  to  the  place  where  it  caught  the 
eye  of  a  trustworthy  antiquarian;  and  this  fact  sug- 
gested to  me  the  advisability  of  attaching  an  engraved 
label  to  such  treasure  trove,  giving  their  history  as  far 
as  is  known  to  the  possessors.  The  interest  attaching 
to  them  would  be  thereby  immensely  increased,  and  it 
would  save  much  useless  conjecture  on  the  part  of 
members  of  Antiquarian  Societies.  Some  people  seem 
to  think  that  paying  a  subscription  to  an  Antiquarian 
Society  makes  one  a  fully  qualified  antiquarian,  just 
as  some  people  fancy  that  being  a  Royal  Academician 
makes  one  a  good  painter. 


62  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

The  great  revival  in  this  country  in  the  taste  for 
the  Formal  Garden  and  the  Dutch  Garden  has 
brought  about  the  introduction  of  an  immense  number 
of  sculptured  pieces  of  decoration;  and  one  feels  that 
in  the  course  of  time  our  gardens  will  be  as  well  fur- 
nished in  this  way  as  those  of  Italy.  The  well-heads 
of  various  marbles,  with  all  the  old  ironwork  that  one 
sees  nowadays  in  the  yards  of  the  importers,  are  as 
amazing  as  the  number  of  exquisite  columns  for  per- 
golas, garden  seats  of  the  most  imposing  character, 
vases  of  bronze  as  well  as  stone  or  marble,  and  wall 
fountains.  And  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  importers 
would  make  any  purchaser  acquainted  with  the  place 
of  origin  of  most  of  these.  Of  course  we  know  pretty 
well  by  now  where  so  many  of  the  treasures  of  the 
Villa  Borghese  are  to  be  found;  but  there  are  hun- 
dreds of  other  pieces  of  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
century  Italian  work  that  arrive  in  England,  and 
quite  as  many  that  go  to  the  United  States,  without 
any  historical  record  attached  to  them.  I  do  hope 
that  the  buyers  of  these  lovely  things  will  see  how 
greatly  their  value  and  the  interest  attaching  to  them 
would  be  increased  by  such  memoranda  of  their 
origin. 

The  best  symbol  of  Peace  is  a  ploughshare  that 
was  once  a  sword ;  and  surely  a  garden  that  has  been 
made  in  the  Tiltyard  of  a  Norman  Castle  may  be 
looked  on  as  an  emblem  of  the  same  Beatitude.  That 
is  how  it  comes  that  every  one  who  enters  our  garden 
cries, — 

"How  wonderfully  peaceful!" 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  63 

I  have  analysed  their  impression  that  forces  them 
to  say  that.  The  mild  bustle  of  the  High  Street  of 
a  country  town  somehow  imposes  itself  upon  one,  for 
the  simple  reason  that  you  can  hear  it  and  observe  it. 
The  bustle  of  London  is  something  quite  different. 
One  is  not  aware  of  it.  You  cannot  see  the  wood  for 
the  trees.  It  is  all  a  wild  roar.  But  when  our  High 
Street  is  at  its  loudest  you  can  easily  distinguish  one 
sound  from  another. 

Then  the  constant  menace  of  motor-cars  rushing 
through  the  High  Street  leaves  an  impression  that 
does  not  vanish  the  moment  one  turns  into  the  passage 
of  the  barbican;  and  upon  it  comes  the  sight  of  the 
defensive  masonry,  which  is  quite  terrific  for  the  mo- 
ment; then  comes  the  looming  threat  of  the  Norman 
gateway  which  gives  promise  of  no  compromise!  It 
is  not  necessary  that  one  should  have  a  particularly 
vivid  imagination  to  hear  the  clash  and  clang  of  arm- 
oured men  riding  forth  with  lances  and  battleaxes; 
and  when  one  steps  aside  out  of  their  way,  the  rest  is 
silence  and  the  silence  is  rest. 

"  How  wonderfully  peaceful !  "  every  one  cries. 

And  so  it  is. 

You  can  hear  the  humming  of  a  bee — the  flick  of  a 
swallow's  wing,  the  tinkle  of  the  fountain — a  delight- 
ful sound  like  the  counting  out  of  the  threepenny 
pieces  in  the  Church  Vestry  after  a  Special  Collec- 
tion— and  the  splash  of  a  blackbird  in  its  own  partic- 
ular bath.  These  are  the  sounds  that  cause  the  silence 
to  startle  you.  "  Darkness  visible,"  is  Milton's  phrase. 
But  to  make  an  adaptation  of  it  is  not  enough  to  ex- 


64  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

press  what  one  feels  on  entering  a  walled  garden  from 
a  street  even  of  a  country  town.  There  is  an  out- 
break of  silence  the  moment  the  door  is  closed,  and 
it  is  in  a  hushed  tone  that  one  says,  when  one  is  able 
to  speak, — 

"  How  wonderfully  peaceful!  " 

I  think  that  a  garden  is  not  a  garden  unless  it  is 
walled.  Perhaps  a  high  hedge  of  yew  or  box  conveys 
the  same  impression  as  a  built-up  wall;  but  I  am  not 
quite  certain  on  this  point.  The  impression  has  re- 
mained with  us  since  the  days  when  an  Englishman's 
home  was  his  castle  and  an  Englishman's  castle  his 
home.  What  every  one  sought  was  security,  and  a 
consciousness  of  security  only  came  when  one  was 
within  walls.  In  going  through  a  country  of  wild 
animals  one  has  a  kindred  feeling  when  the  fire  is 
lighted  at  nightfall.  Another  transmitted  instinct  is 
that  which  forces  one  to  look  backward  on  a  road 
when  the  sound  of  steps  tells  one  that  one  is  being 
followed.  The  earliest  English  gardens  of  which  any 
record  remains  were  walled.  In  the  illustrations  to 
the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose,  we  see  this;  and  possibly 
the  maze  became  a  feature  of  the  garden  in  order  to 
increase  the  sense  of  security  from  the  knife  of  an 
enemy  whose  slaughter  had  been  overlooked  by  the 
mediaeval  horticultural  enthusiast,  who  sought  for 
peace  and  quiet  on  Prussian  principles. 

I  think  it  was  the  appearance  of  the  walls  that 
forced  me  to  buy  my  estate  of  a  superficial  acre.  Cer- 
tainly until  I  saw  them  I  had  no  idea  of  such  a  pur- 
chase. If  any  one  had  told  me  on  that  morning  when 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  65 

I  strolled  up  the  High  Street  of  Yardley  Parva  while 
the  battery  of  my  car  was  being  re-charged  after  the 
manner  of  those  pre-magneto  times,  that  I  should  take 
such  a  step  I  would  have  laughed.  But  it  was  a  day 
of  August  sunshine  and  there  was  an  auction  of  fur- 
niture going  on  in  the  house.  This  fact  gave  me  en- 
tree to  the  "  old-world  garden  "  of  the  agent's  adver- 
tisement, and  when  I  saw  the  range  of  walls  ablaze 
with  many-coloured  snapdragons  above  the  double 
row  of  hollyhocks  in  the  border  at  their  foot,  I  "  found 
peace,"  as  the  old  Revivalists  used  to  phrase  the  senti- 
ment, only  their  assurance  was  of  a  title  to  a  mansion 
in  the  skies,  while  I  was  less  ambitious.  I  sought 
peace  and  ensued  it,  purchasing  the  freehold,  and  I 
have  been  ensuing  it  ever  since. 

The  mighty  walls  of  the  old  Castle  compass  us 
about  as  they  did  the  various  dwellers  within  their 
shelter  eight  hundred  years  ago.  On  one  side  they 
vary  from  twelve  feet  to  thirty  in  height,  but  on  the 
outer  side  they  rise  from  the  moat  and  loom  from 
forty  to  fifty  feet  above  the  lowest  of  the  terraces. 
At  one  part,  where  a  Saxon  earthwork  makes  a  long 
curved  hillock  at  the  farther  end  of  the  grounds,  the 
wall  is  only  ten  feet  above  the  grassy  walk,  but  forty 
feet  down  on  the  other  side.  The  Norman  Conqueror 
simply  built  his  wall  resting  against  the  mound  of 
the  original  and  more  elementary  fortification.  Here 
the  line  of  the  screen  breaks  off  abruptly ;  but  we  can 
see  that  at  one  time  it  was  carried  on  to  an  artificial 
hill  on  the  summit  of  which  the  curious  feature  of  a 
second  keep  was  built — the  well-preserved  main  keep 


66  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

forms  an  imposing  incident  of  the  landscape  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

The  small  plateau  which  was  once  enclosed  by  the 
screen-wall  is  not  more  than  three  acres  in  extent; 
from  its  elevation  of  a  couple  of  hundred  feet  it  over- 
looks the  level  country  and  the  shallow  river-way  for 
many  miles — a  tranquil  landscape  of  sylvan  beauty 
dominated  by  the  everlasting  Downs.  Almost  to  the 
very  brink  of  the  lofty  banks  of  the  plateau  on  one 
side  we  have  an  irregular  bowling-green,  bordered  by 
a  row  of  pollard  ashes.  From  a  clause  in  one  of  my 
title  deeds  I  find  that  three  hundred  years  ago  the 
bowling-green  was  in  active  existence  and  played  a 
useful  part  as  a  landmark  in  the  delimitation  of 
the  frontier.  It  is  brightly  green  at  all  seasons; 
and  the  kindly  neighbouring  antiquarian  confided 
in  me  how  its  beauty  was  attained  and  is  main- 
tained. 

"  Some  time  ago  an  American  tourist  asked  the  man 
who  was  mowing  it  how  it  came  to  be  such  a  fine  green, 
and  says  the  man,  *  Why,  it's  as  easy  as  snuffling :  all 
you've  got  to  do  is  to  lay  it  down  with  good  turf  at 
first  and  keep  on  cutting  it  for  three  or  four  hundred 
years  and  the  thing  is  done.'  Smart  of  the  fellow, 
wasn't  it?  " 

"  It  was  very  smart,"  I  admitted. 

Our  neighbour  showed  his  antiquarian  research  in 
another  story  as  well  as  in  this  one.  It  related  to  the 
curate  of  a  local  parish  who,  in  the  unavoidable  ab- 
sence of  his  vicar,  who  was  a  Rural  Dean,  found  him- 
self taking  a  timid  breakfast  with  the  Bishop  of  the 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  67 

Diocese.  He  was  naturally  a  shy  man  and  he  was 
shying  very  highly  over  an  egg  that  he  had  taken  and 
that  was  making  a  very  hearty  appeal  to  him.  Ob- 
serving him,  the  Bishop,  with  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  his  Diocese,  and  being  well  aware  that  the  elec- 
toral contest  which  had  been  expected  a  few  months 
earlier  had  not  taken  place,  turned  to  the  curate  and 
remarked 

But  if  you've  heard  the  story  before  what  he  re- 
marked will  not  appeal  to  you  so  strongly  as  the  egg 
did  to  the  clergyman;  so  there  is  nothing  gained  by 
repeating  the  remark  or  the  response  intoned  by  the 
curate. 

But  when  our  antiquarian  told  us  both  we  heartily 
agreed  with  him  that  that  curate  deserved  to  be  a 
bishop. 

We  are  awaiting  without  impatience,  I  trust,  the 
third  of  this  Troika  team  of  anecdotes — the  one  that 
refers  to  the  Scotsman  and  Irishman  who  came  to 
the  signpost  that  told  all  who  couldn't  read  to  inquire 
at  the  blacksmith's.  That  story  is  certain  to  be  re- 
vealed to  us  in  time.  The  antiquarian  from  the  stable 
of  whose  memory  the  other  two  of  the  team  were  let 
loose  cannot  possibly  restrain  the  third. 

Such  things  are  pleasantly  congenial  with  the  scent 
of  lavender  in  an  old-world  garden  that  knows  noth- 
ing of  how  busy  people  are  in  the  new  world  outside 
its  boundary.  But  what  are  we  to  say  when  we  find 
in  a  volume  of  serious  biography  published  last  year 
only  as  a  previously  unheard-of  instance  of  the  wit 
of  the  "  subject,"  the  story  of  the  gentleman  who, 


68  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

standing  at  the  entrance  to  his  club,  was  taken  for 
the  porter  by  a  member  coming  out? 

"  Call  me  a  cab,"  said  the  latter. 

"  You're  a  cab,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

The  story  in  the  biography  stops  there;  but  the 
original  one  shows  the  wit  making  a  second  score  on 
punning  points. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  cried  the  other.  "  I  told 
you  to  call  me  a  cab." 

"  And  I've  called  you  a  cab.  You  didn't  expect 
me  to  call  you  handsome,"  said  the  ready  respondent. 

Now  that  story  was  a  familiar  Strand  story  forty 
years  ago  when  H.  J.  Byron  was  at  the  height  of  his 
fame,  and  he  was  made  the  hero  of  the  pun  (assum- 
ing that  it  is  possible  for  a  hero  to  make  a  pun) . 

But,  of  course,  no  one  can  vouch  for  the  mint  from 
which  such  small  coin  issues.  If  a  well-known  man  is 
in  the  habit  of  making  puns  all  the  puns  of  his  gen- 
eration are  told  in  the  next  with  his  name  attached 
to  them.  H.  J.  Byron  was  certainly  as  good  a  pun- 
ster as  ever  wrote  a  burlesque  for  the  old  Gaiety; 
though  a  good  deal  of  the  effect  of  his  puns  was  due 
to  their  delivery  by  Edward  Terry.  But  nothing  that 
Byron  wrote  was  so  good  as  Burnand's  title  to  his 
Burlesque  on  Rob  Roy,  the  play  which  Mrs  Bateman 
had  just  revived  at  Sadler's  Wells.  Burnand  called 
it  Robbing  Roy,  or  Scotched,  not  Kilt.  The  parody 
on  "  Roy's  Wife,"  sung  by  Terry,  was  exquisite,  and 
very  topical,— 

"  Roy's  wife  of  Alldivalloch ! 
Roy's  wife  of  Alldivalloch ! 


Oh,  while  she 
Is  wife  to  me, 
Is  life  worth  living,  Mr.  Mallock?" 

Mr.  Mallock's  book  was  being  widely  discussed  in 
those  days,  and  Punch  had  his  pun  on  it  with  the 
rest. 

"  Is  Life  worth  living? "  "  It  depends  on  the 
liver." 

The  Garrick  Club  stories  of  Byron,  Gilbert,  and 
Burnand  were  innumerable.  To  the  first-named  was 
attributed  the  dictum  that  a  play  was  like  a  cigar. 
"  If  it  was  a  good  one  all  your  friends  wanted  a  box; 
but  if  it  was  a  bad  one  no  amount  of  puffing  would 
make  it  draw." 

The  budding  litterateurs  of  those  days — and  nights 
— used  to  go  from  hearing  stories  of  Byron's  latest, 
to  the  Junior  Garrick  to  hear  Byron  make  up  fresh 
ones  about  old  Mrs.  Swanborough  of  the  Strand 
Theatre.  Some  of  them  were  very  funny.  Mrs.  Swan- 
borough  was  a  clever  old  lady  with  whom  I  was  ac- 
quainted when  I  was  very  young.  She  never  gave 
utterance  to  the  things  Byron  tacked  on  to  her.  I 
recollect  how  amused  I  was  to  hear  Byron's  stories 
about  her  told  to  me  by  Arthur  Swanborough  about 
an  old  lady  who  had  just  retired  from  the  stage,  and 
then,  passing  on  to  Orme  Square  on  a  Sunday  eve- 
ning, to  hear  "  Johnny  Toole,"  as  he  was  to  the  very 
youngest  of  us,  tell  the  same  stories  about  a  dear  old 
girl  who  was  still  in  his  company  at  the  Folly  Theatre. 

So  much  for  the  circulation  of  everyday  anecdotes. 
Dean  Swift  absorbed  most  of  the  creations  of  the  early 


70  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

eighteenth  century;  then  Dr.  Johnson  became  the 
father  of  as  many  as  would  fill  a  volume.  Theodore 
Hook,  Tom  Hood,  Shirley  Brooks,  Albert  Smith, 
Mark  Lemon,  and  several  others  whose  names  convey 
little  to  the  present  generation,  were  the  reputed  par- 
ents of  the  puns  which  enlivened  the  great  Victorian 
age.  But  if  a  scrupulous  historian  made  up  his  mind 
to  apply  for  a  paternity  order  against  any  one  of 
these  gay  dogs,  that  historian  would  have  difficulty 
in  bringing  forward  sufficient  evidence  to  have  it 
granted. 

The  late  Mr.  M.  A.  Robertson,  of  the  Treaty  De- 
partment of  the  Foreign  Office,  told  me  that  his 
father — the  celebrated  preacher  known  to  fame  as 
"  Robertson  of  Brighton  " — had  described  to  him  the 
important  part  played  by  the  pun  in  the  early  sixties. 
At  a  dinner-party  at  which  the  Reverend  Mr.  Rob- 
ertson was  a  guest,  a  humorist  who  was  present 
picked  up  the  menu  card  and  set  the  table  on  a  roar 
with  his  punning  criticism  of  every  plat.  Robertson 
thought  that  such  a  spontaneous  effort  was  a  very 
creditable  tour  de  force — doubtless  the  humorist 
would  have  called  it  a  tour  de  farce — but  a  few  nights 
later  he  was  at  another  party  which  was  attended  by 
the  same  fellow-guest,  and  once  again  the  menu, 
which  happened  to  be  exactly  the  same  also,  was 
casually  picked  up  and  dealt  with  seriatim  as  before, 
with  an  equally  hilarious  effect.  He  mentioned  to  the 
hostess  as  a  curious  coincidence  that  he  should  find 
her  excellent  dinner  identical  with  the  one  of  which 
he  had  partaken  at  the  other  house ;  and  then  she  con- 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  71 

fided  in  him  that  the  great  punster  had  given  her  the 
bill  of  fare  that  afforded  him  his  opportunity  of  dis- 
playing his  enlivening  trick !  Robertson  gave  me  the 
name  of  this  Victorian  artist,  but  there  is  no  need  for 
me  to  reveal  it  in  this  place.  The  story,  however, 
allows  us  a  glimpse  into  the  studio  of  one  of  the  word- 
jugglers  of  other  days;  and  when  one  has  been  made 
aware  of  the  machinery  of  his  mysteries,  one  ceases 
to  marvel. 

Two  brothers,  Willie  and  Oscar  Wilde,  earned 
many  dinners  in  their  time  by  their  conversational 
abilities ;  and  I  happen  to  know  that  before  going  out 
together  they  rehearsed  very  carefully  the  exchange 
of  their  impromptus  at  the  dinner  table.  Both  of 
these  brothers  were  brilliant  conversationalists,  and 
possessed  excellent  memories.  They  were  equally 
unscrupulous  and  unprincipled.  The  only  psycho- 
logical distinction  between  the  two  was  that  the  elder, 
Willie,  possessed  an  impudence  of  a  quality  which 
was  not  among  Oscar's  gifts.  Oscar  was  impudent 
enough  to  take  his  call  on  the  first  night  of  Lady 
Windermere's  Fan  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  to  assure 
the  audience  that  he  had  enjoyed  the  play  immensely; 
but  he  was  never  equal  to  his  brother  in  this  special 
line.  Willie  was  a  little  over  twenty  and  living  with 
his  parents  in  Dublin,  where  he  had  a  friendly  little 
understanding  with  a  burlesque  actress  who  was  the 
principal  boy  in  the  pantomime  at  the  Gaiety 
Theatre.  She  wrote  to  him  one  day  making  an  ap- 
pointment with  him  for  the  night,  and  asking  him 
to  call  for  her  at  the  stage  door.  The  girl  addressed 


72  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

the  letter  to  "  Wm.  Wilde,  Esq.,"  at  his  home,  and 
as  his  father's  name  was  William  he  opened  it  me- 
chanically and  read  it.  He  called  Willie  into  his 
study  after  breakfast  and  put  the  letter  before  him, 
crying,  "Read  that,  sir!" 

The  son  obeyed,  folded  it  up  and  handed  it  back, 
saying  quietly, — 

"  Well,  dad,  do  you  intend  to  go? " 

To  obtain  ready  cash  and  good  dinners,  Willie 
Wilde,  when  on  the  staff  of  a  great  London  news- 
paper, was  readyto  descend  to  any  scheming  and  any 
meanness.  But  the  descriptive  column  that  he  wrote 
of  the  sittings  of  the  Parnell  Commission  day  after 
day  could  not  be  surpassed  for  cleverness  and  in- 
sight. He  would  lounge  into  the  Court  at  any  time 
he  pleased  and  remain  for  an  hour  or  so,  rarely 
longer,  and  he  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  amusing  him- 
self and  flushing  himself  with  brandies  and  soda  at 
the  expense  of  his  friends.  He  usually  began  to 
write  his  article  between  eleven  and  twelve  at  night. 

Such  were  these  meteoric  brothers  before  the  cen- 
trifugal force  due  to  their  revolutionary  instinct  sent 
them  flying  into  space. 

But  one  handful  of  the  meteoric  dust  of  the  con- 
versation of  either  was  worth  all  the  humour  of  the 
great  Victorian  punsters. 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTH 

FROM  the  foregoing  half-dozen  pages  it  is  becoming 
pretty  clear  that  a  Garden  of  Peace  may  also  be 
a  Garden  of  Memories.  But  I  am  sure  that  one  of 
the  greatest  attractions  of  garden  life  to  a  man  who 
has  stepped  out  of  a  busy  world — its  strepitumque 
virumque,  is  that  it  compels  him  to  look  forward, 
while  permitting  him  to  look  back.  The  very  act  of 
dropping  a  seed  into  the  soil  is  prospective.  To  see 
things  growing  is  stimulating,  whether  they  are  chil- 
dren or  other  flowers.  One  has  no  time  to  think  how 
one  would  order  one's  career,  avoiding  the  mistakes 
of  the  past,  if  one  got  a  renewal  of  one's  lease  of  life, 
for  in  a  garden  we  are  ever  planning  for  the  future; 
but  these  rustling  leaves  of  memory  are  useful  as  a 
sort  of  mulch  for  the  mind. 

And  the  garden  has  certainly  grown  since  I  first 
entered  it  ten  years  ago.  It  was  originally  to  be  re- 
ferred to  in  the  singular,  but  now  it  must  be  thought 
of  in  the  plural.  It  was  a  garden,  now  it  is  gardens; 
and  whether  I  have  succeeded  or  not  my  experience 
compels  me  to  believe  that  to  aim  at  the  plural  makes 
for  success.  Two  gardens,  each  of  thirty  feet  square, 
are  infinitely  better  than  one  garden  of  sixty.  I  am 
sure  of  that  to-day,  but  it  took  me  some  time  to  find 

73 


74  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

it  out.  A  garden  to  be  distinctive  must  have  distinct 
features,  like  every  other  thing  of  life. 

I  notice  that  most  writers  on  garden-making  begin 
by  describing  what  a  wilderness  their  place  was  when 
they  first  took  it  in  hand.  I  cannot  maintain  that 
tradition.  Mine  had  nothing  of  the  wilderness  about 
it.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  just  too  neat  for  my 
taste.  The  large  lawn  on  to  which  some  of  the  lower 
rooms  of  the  house  opened,  had  broad  paths  on  each 
side  and  a  broad  flower  border  beyond.  There  was 
not  a  shrub  on  the  lawn  and  only  one  tree — a  majestic 
deodar  spreading  itself  abroad  at  an  angle  of  the 
nearest  wing  of  the  house;  but  on  a  knoll  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  lawn  there  were,  we  discovered  next 
summer,  pink  and  white  mays,  a  wild  cherry,  and  a 
couple  of  laburnums,  backed  by  a  towering  group 
made  up  of  sycamores  and  chestnuts.  Such  a  plan  of 
planting  could  not  be  improved  upon,  I  felt  certain, 
though  I  did  not  discuss  it  at  the  time;  for  I  was  not 
out  to  make  an  alteration,  and  my  attention  was 
wholly  occupied  with  the  appearance  of  the  ancient 
walls,  glorious  with  snapdragon  up  to  the  lilacs  that 
made  a  coping  of  colour  for  the  whole  high  range, 
while  the  lower  brick  boundary  opposite  was  covered 
with  pears  and  plums  clasping  hands  in  espalier  form 
from  end  to  end. 

But  I  was  not  sure  about  the  flower  borders  which 
contained  alternate  clumps  of  pink  geraniums  and 
white  daisies.  Perhaps  they  were  too  strongly  remi- 
niscent of  the  window-boxes  of  the  Cromwell  Road 
through  which  I  had  walked  every  day  for  nearly 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  75 

twenty  years,  and  in  time  one  grows  weary  even  of 
the  Cromwell  Road! 

But  so  well  did  the  accident  of  one  elbow  of  the 
wall  of  the  bowling-green  pushing  itself  out  lend 
itself  to  the  construction  of  the  garden,  that  the  first 
and  most  important  element  in  garden-design  was 
attained.  This,  I  need  hardly  say,  is  illusion  and  sur- 
prise. One  fancied  that  here  the  limits  of  the  ground 
had  been  reached,  for  a  fine  deciduous  oak  seemed  to 
block  the  way;  but  with  investigation  one  found 
oneself  at  the  entrance  to  a  new  range  of  grounds 
which,  though  only  about  three  times  as  large  as  the 
first,  seemed  almost  illimitable. 

The  greater  part  had  at  one  time  been  an  orchard, 
we  could  see ;  but  the  trees  had  been  planted  too  close 
to  one  another,  and  after  thirty  or  forty  years  of 
jostling,  had  ceased  to  be  of  any  pictorial  or  com- 
mercial value,  and  I  saw  that  these  would  have  to 
go.  Beyond  there  was  a  kitchen  garden  and  a  large 
glass-house,  and  on  one  side  there  was  a  long  curve 
of  grass  terrace  made  out  of  the  Saxon  or  Roman 
earthwork,  against  which,  as  I  have  already  said,  the 
Norman  walls  were  built,  showing  only  about  twelve 
or  fifteen  feet  above  the  terrace,  while  being  forty 
or  fifty  down  to  the  dry  moat  outside.  This  low 
mural  line  was  a  mass  of  antirrhinums,  wallflowers, 
and  such  ferns  as  thrive  in  rock  crevices. 

There  was  abviously  not  much  to  improve  in  all 
this.  We  were  quite  satisfied  with  everything  as  it 
stood.  There  was  nothing  whatsoever  of  the  wilder- 
ness that  we  could  cause  to  blossom  as  the  rose,  only 


76  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

— not  a  rose  was  to  be  seen  in  any  part  of  the 
garden ! 

We  were  conscious  of  the  want,  for  our  Kensington 
garden  had  been  a  mass  of  roses,  and  we  were  ready 
to  join  on  to  Victor  Hugo's  "  Une  maison  sans 
enfants"  "  un  jardin  sans  roses."  But  we  were  not 
troubled;  roses  are  as  easily  to  be  obtained  as  bram- 
bles— in  fact  rather  more  easily — and  we  had  only  to 
make  up  our  minds  where  to  plant  them  and  they 
would  blush  all  over  the  place  the  next  summer. 

We  had  nothing  to  complain  of  but  much  to  be 
thankful  for,  when,  after  being  in  the  house  for  a 
month,  I  found  the  old  gardener,  whom  we  had  taken 
over  with  the  place,  wheeling  his  barrow  through  a 
doorway  which  I  knew  led  to  a  dilapidated  potting- 
shed,  and  as  I  saw  that  the  barrow  was  laden  with 
rubbish  I  had  the  curiosity  to  follow  him  to  see  where 
he  should  dispose  of  it. 

He  went  through  a  small  iron  gate  in  the  wall 
alongside  the  concealed  potting-house,  and,  following 
him,  I  found  myself  to  my  amazement  in  a  small 
walled  space,  forty  feet  by  thirty,  containing  rubbish, 
but  giving  every  one  with  eyes  to  see  such  a  picture 
of  the  Barbican,  the  Castle  Gate  with  the  Keep 
crowning  the  mound  beyond,  as  made  me  shout — such 
a  picture  as  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  county! 

If  it  had  a  fault  at  all  it  was  to  be  found  in  its 
perfection.  Every  one  has,  I  hope,  seen  the  Sham 
Castle,  the  castellated  gateway,  built  on  Hampton 
Down,  near  Bath,  to  add  picturesqueness  to  the  pros- 
pect as  seen  from  the  other  side.  This  is  as  perfectly 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  77 

made  a  ruin  as  ever  was  built  up  by  stage  carpenters. 
There  was  no  reason  why  it  should  not  be  so,  for  it 
was  easy  to  put  a  stone  in  here  and  there  if  an  im- 
provement were  needed,  or  to  dilapidate  a  bit  of  a 
tower  until  the  whole  would  meet  with  the  approval 
even  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Commissioners,  who  are,  I 
am  given  to  understand,  the  best  informed  authorities 
in  England  on  the  assessment  of  dilapidations.  I 
must  confess  that  the  first  glimpse  I  had  of  the  pic- 
ture that  stood  before  my  eyes  above  my  newly- 
acquired  rubbish-heaps  suggested  the  perfection  of 
a  sham.  The  mise-en-scene  seemed  too  elaborate — 
too  highly  finished — no  detail  that  could  add  to  the 
effect  being  absent.  But  there  it  was,  and  I  remained 
looking  at  it  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

The  over-conscientious  agents  had  said  not  a  word 
in  the  inventory  of  the  most  valuable  asset  in  connec- 
tion with  the  property.  They  had  scrupulously  ad- 
vertised the  "  unique  and  valuable  old-fashioned  resi- 
dence," and  the  fact  that  it  was  partially  "  covered 
by  creepers  " — a  partiality  to  which  I  was  not  very 
partial — and  that  the  "  billiard  saloon  "  had  the  same 
advantages — they  had  not  failed  to  allude  to  the  gar- 
dens as  "  old-world  and  quaint,"  but  not  one  word 
had  they  said  about  this  view  from  the  well-matured 
rubbish-heaps! 

It  was  at  this  point  that  I  began  to  think  about 
improvements,  and  the  first  essay  in  this  direction 
was  obvious.  I  had  the  rubbish  removed,  the  ground 
made  straight,  a  stone  sundial  placed  in  the  centre, 
and  a  Dutch  pattern  of  flower-beds  cut  around  it. 


78  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

On  the  coping  of  the  walls — they  were  only  six  feet 
high  on  our  side,  but  forty  on  the  outside — I  placed 
lead  and  stone  vases  and  a  balustrade  of  wrought 
iron-work.  I  made  an  immense  window  in  the  wall 
of  the  potting-shed — a  single  sheet  of  plate-glass  with 
four  small  casements  of  heraldic  stained  glass;  and 
then  the  old  potting-shed  I  panelled  in  coloured  mar- 
bles, designed  a  sort  of  domed  roof  for  it  and  laid 
down  a  floor  in  mosaics.  I  had  in  my  mind  a  room 
in  the  Little  Trianon  in  all  this ;  and  I  meant  to  treat 
the  view  outside  as  a  picture  set  in  one  wall.  Of 
course  I  did  not  altogether  succeed;  but  I  have  gone 
sufficiently  far  to  deceive  more  than  one  visitor. 
Entering  the  room  through  a  mahogany  door  set  with 
a  round  panel  of  beautifully-clouded  onyx — once  a 
table-top  in  the  gay  George's  pavilion-  at  Brighton — 
a  visitor  sees  the  brass  frame  of  the  large  window  en- 
closing the  picture  of  the  Barbican,  the  Gateway,  and 
the  Keep,  and  it  takes  some  moments  to  under- 
stand it. 

All  this  sounds  dreadfully  expensive;  but  through 
finding  a  really  intelligent  builder  and  men  who  were 
ready  to  do  all  that  was  asked  of  them,  and,  above 
all,  through  having  abundance  of  material  collected 
wherever  it  was  going  at  shillings  instead  of  pounds, 
I  effected  the  transformation  at  less  than  a  sixth  of  the 
lowest  assessment  of  the  cost  made  by  professional 
friends.  To  relieve  myself  from  any  vain  charge  of 
extravagance,  I  may  perhaps  be  permitted  to  mention 
that  when  the  property  was  offered  for  sale  in  Lon- 
don a  week  before  I  bought  it,  not  a  single  bid  was 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  79 

made  for  it,  owing  to  an  apparent  flaw  in  one  of  the 
title-deeds  frightening  every  one  off.  Thus,  without 
knowing  it,  I  arrived  on  the  scene  at  the  exact  psy- 
chological moment — for  a  purchaser ;  and  when  I  got 
the  place  I  found  myself  with  a  considerable  sum  in 
hand  to  spend  upon  it,  and  that  sum  has  not  yet  been 
all  spent.  The  bogey  fault  in  the  title  was  made  good 
by  the  exchange  of  a  few  letters,  and  it  is  now  abso- 
lutely unassailable. 

It  must  also  be  remembered  by  such  people  as  may 
be  inclined  to  talk  of  extravagance,  that  it  is  very 
good  business  to  spend  a  hundred  pounds  on  one's 
property  if  the  property  is  thereby  increased  in  value 
by  three  hundred.  I  have  the  best  of  all  reasons  for 
resting  in  the  assurance  that  for  every  pound  I  have 
spent  I  am  three  to  the  good.  There  is  no  economy 
like  legitimate  expenditure. 

I  wonder  if  real  authorities  in  garden  design  would 
think  I  was  right  in  treating  after  the  Dutch  fashion 
the  little  enclosed  piece  of  ground  on  which  I  tried 
my  prentice  hand. 

In  order  to  arrive  at  a  conclusion  on  this  point  I 
should  like  to  be  more  fully  informed  as  to  what 
is  congruous  and  what  incongruous.  What  are  the 
important  elements  to  consider  in  the  construction  of 
a  Dutch  garden,  and  are  these  elements  in  sympathy 
with  the  foreground  of  such  a  picture  as  I  had  before 
me  when  I  made  up  my  mind  on  the  subject? 

Now  I  have  seen  many  Dutch  gardens  in  Holland, 
and  in  Cape  Colony — relics  of  the  old  Dutch  Colonial 


80  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

days — and  every  one  knows  how  conservative  is  this 
splendid  if  somewhat  over-hospitable  race.  Some  of 
the  gardens  lying  between  Cape  Town  and  Simon's 
Bay,  and  also  on  the  higher  ground  above  Mossel 
Bay  are  what  old-furniture  dealers  term  "  in  mint 
condition  " — I  disclaim  any  suggestion  of  a  pun  upon 
the  herb,  which  in  Dutch  houses  at  the  Cape  is  not 
used  in  sauce  for  lamb.  They  are  as  they  were  laid 
out  by  the  Solomons,  the  Cloetes,  the  Van  der  Byls, 
and  the  other  old  Dutch  Colonial  families;  so  far 
from  adapting .  themselves  to  the  tropical  and  sub- 
tropical conditions  existing  in  the  Colony,  they 
brought  their  home  traditions  into  their  new  sur- 
roundings with  results  that  were  both  happy  and 
profitable.  There  are  certainly  no  finer  or  more 
various  bulbs  than  those  of  Dutch  growth  at  the 
Cape,  and  I  have  never  seen  anything  more  beau- 
tiful than  the  heaths  on  the  Flats  between  Mowbray 
and  Rondesbosch  at  the  foot  of  the  Devil's  Peak  of 
Table  Mountain. 

A  Dutch  gentleman  once  said  to  me  in  Rotterdam, 
"  If  you  want  to  see  a  real  Dutch  garden  you  must 
go  to  the  Cape,  or,  better  still,  to  England — 
for  it." 

He  meant  that  in  both  places  greater  pains  are 
taken  to  maintain  the  original  type  than,  generally 
speaking,  in  Holland. 

I  know  that  he  spoke  of  what  he  knew,  and  with 
what  chances  of  observation  I  have  had,  I  long  ago 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  elements  of  what  is 
commonly  called  a  Dutch  garden  do  not  differ  so 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  81 

greatly  from  those  that  went  to  the  making  of  the 
oldest  English  herb  and  flower  garden.  This  being 
so,  when  I  asked  myself  how  I  should  lay  out  a  fore- 
ground that  should  be  congenial  with  the  picture  seen 
through  the  window  of  the  marble-panelled  room,  I 
knew  that  the  garden  should  be  as  like  as  possible 
that  which  would  be  planted  by  the  porter's  wife 
when  the  Castle  was  at  its  best.  The  porter's  lodge 
would  join  on  to  the  gate,  and  one  side  of  the  gate- 
way touches  my  ground,  where  the  lodge  would  be; 
so  that,  with  suggestions  from  the  Chatelaine,  who 
had  seen  the  world,  and  the  Chaplain,  who  may  have 
been  familiar  with  the  earliest  gardens  in  England — 
the  monastery  gardens — she  would  lay  out  the  little 
bit  of  ground  pretty  much,  I  think,  as  I  have  done. 
In  those  days  people  had  not  got  into  the  way  of 
differentiating  between  gardens  and  gardens — there 
was  no  talk  about  "  false  notes  "  in  design,  men  did 
not  sleep  uneasily  o'  nights  lest  they  had  made  an 
irremediable  mistake  in  giving  hospitality  to  a  crim- 
son peony  in  a  formal  bed  or  in  failing  to  dig  up  an 
annual  that  had  somehow  found  a  place  in  a  herba- 
ceous border.  But  a  garden  bounded  by  walls  must 
be  neat  or  nothing,  and  so  the  porter's  wife  made  a 
Dutch  garden  without  being  aware  of  what  she  was 
doing,  and  I  followed  her  example,  after  the  lapse  of 
a  few  hundred  years,  knowing  quite  well  what  I  was 
doing  in  acting  on  the  principle  that  the  surround- 
ings should  suggest  the  garden.  I  know  now,  how- 
ever, that  because  William  the  Conqueror  had  a  fine 
growth  of  what  we  call  Dianthus  Caryophylla  at  his 


82  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

Castle  of  Falaise,  we  should  have  scrupulously  fol- 
lowed his  example.  However,  the  elements  of  a 
Dutch  garden  are  geometrical,  and  within  four  walls 
and  with  four  right  angles  one  cannot  but  be  geomet- 
rical. One  cannot  have  the  charming  disorderliness 
of  a  meadow  bounded  by  two  meandering  streams. 
That  is  why  I  know  I  was  right  in  refusing  to  allow 
any  irregularity  in  my  treatment  of  the  ground.  I 
put  my  sundial  exactly  in  the  middle  and  made  it  the 
centre  for  four  small  beds  crossed  by  a  narrow  grass 
path;  and  except  for  the  simple  central  design  there 
is  no  attempt  at  colour  effect.  But  every  one  of  the 
little  beds  is  brilliant  with  tulips  or  pansies  or  antirr- 
hinum or  wallflowers,  as  the  season  suggests.  There 
is  the  scent  of  lavender  from  four  clumps — one  at 
each  angle  of  the  walls — and  over  the  western  coping 
a  pink  rose  climbs.  To  be  consistent  I  should  confine 
the  growth  of  this  rose  to  an  espalier  against  the  wall. 
I  mean  to  be  consistent  some  day  in  this  matter  and 
others  nearly  as  important,  and  I  have  been  so  mean- 
ing for  the  past  ten  years. 

I  picked  up  some  time  ago  four  tubs  of  box  and 
placed  one  in  each  corner  of  the  grass  groundwork 
of  the  design;  but  I  soon  took  them  away;  they  were 
far  too  conspicuous.  They  suggested  that  I  was 
dragging  in  Holland  by  the  hair  of  the  head,  so  to 
speak. 

It  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  spoil  a  good 
effect  by  over-emphasis;  and  any  one  who  fancies 
that  the  chief  note  in  a  Dutch  garden  is  an  over- 
growth of  box  makes  a  great  mistake.  It  is  like  put- 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  83 

ting  up  a  board  with  "  This  way  to  the  Dutch  gar- 
den," planted  on  its  face. 

I  remember  years  ago  a  play  produced  at  the  Hay- 
market,  when  Tree  had  the  theatre  and  Mr.  J. 
Comyns  Carr  was  his  adviser.  It  was  a  successor  to 
an  adaptation  of  Called  Back,  the  first  of  the  "  shill- 
ing shockers,"  as  they  were  styled.  In  one  scene  the 
curtain  rose  upon  several  of  the  characters  sucking 
oranges,  and  they  kept  at  it  through  the  whole  scene. 
That  is  what  it  is  termed  "  local  colour  ";  and  it  was 
hoped  that  every  one  who  saw  them  so  employed 
was  convinced  that  the  scene  was  laid  in  Seville.  It 
might  as  well  have  been  laid  in  the  gallery  of  a 
theatre,  where  refreshment  is  taken  in  the  same  form. 

M.  Bizet  achieved  his  "  local  colour  "  in  Carmen 
in  rather  a  more  subtle  way.  He  did  not  bother  about 
oranges.  The  first  five  bars  of  the  overture  prepared 
us  for  Spain  and  we  lived  in  it  until  the  fall  of  the 
curtain,  and  we  return  to  it  when  one  of  the  children 
strums  a  few  notes  of  ff  L 'amour  est  un  oiseau 
rebelled  or  the  Toreador's  braggadocio. 

But  although  I  have  eaten  oranges  in  many  parts 
of  the  world  since  I  witnessed  that  play  at  the  Hay- 
market  I  have  never  been  reminded  of  it,  and  to-day 
I  forget  what  it  was  all  about,  and  I  cannot  for  the 
life  of  me  recollect  what  was  its  name. 

So  much  for  the  ineffectiveness  of  obvious  effects. 


CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTH 

IT  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  live  in  the  same  town  as  an 
Atheist!  I  had  no  idea  that  a  house  in  Yardley 
Parva  would  ever  be  occupied  by  such  an  one.  I 
fancied  that  I  was  leaving  them  all  behind  me  in 
London,  where  I  could  not  avoid  getting  into  touch 
with  several;  no  one  can  unless  one  refuses  to  have 
anything  to  say  to  the  intellectual  or  artistic  classes. 
People  in  London  are  so  callous  that  they  do  not 
seem  to  mind  having  atheists  to  dinner  or  talking  with 
them  without  hostility  at  a  club.  That  is  all  very  well 
for  London,  but  it  doesn't  do  in  Yardley  Parva,  thank 
God!  Atheism  is  very  properly  regarded  as  a  dis- 
tinct social  disqualification — almost  as  bad  as  being 
a  Nonconformist. 

Friswell  is  the  name  of  our  atheist.  What  brought 
him  here  I  cannot  guess.  But  he  bought  a  house  that 
had  once  been  the  rectory  of  a  clergyman  (when  I 
mention  the  Clergy  in  this  book  it  must  be  taken  for 
granted  that  I  mean  a  priest  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land) and  the  predecessor  of  that  clergyman  had  been 
a  Rural  Dean.  How  on  earth  the  agent  could  sell 
him  the  house  is  a  mystery  that  has  not  yet  been 
solved,  though  many  honest  attempts  in  this  direction 
have  been  made.  The  agent  was  blamed  for  not  mak- 

84 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  85 

ing  such  inquiries  as  would  have  led  to  the  detection 
of  the  fellow.  He  was  held  responsible  for  Friswell's 
incorporation  as  a  burgess,  just  as  Graham  the  green- 
grocer was  held  responsible  for  the  epidemic  of 
mumps  which  it  is  known  he  brought  into  the  town 
in  a  basket  of  apples  from  Baston. 

But  the  agent's  friends  make  excuses  for  him. 
While  admitting  that  he  may  have  been  culpably 
careless  in  order  to  secure  a  purchaser  for  a  house 
that  nobody  seemed  to  want  in  spite  of  its  hallowed  as- 
sociations, they  are  ready  to  affirm  that  these  atheists 
have  all  the  guile  of  their  Master,  so  that  even  if  the 
agent  had  been  alert  in  making  the  essential  inquiries, 
the  man  would  not  hesitate  to  give  the  most  plausi- 
ble answers  in  order  to  accomplish  his  object — the 
object  of  the  wolf  that  has  his  eye  on  a  sheep- 
fold. 

This  may  be  so — I  decline  to  express  an  opinion 
one  way  or  another.  All  I  know  is  that  Friswell  has 
written  some  books  that  are  known  in  every  part  of 
the  civilised  world  and  in  Germany  as  well,  and  that 
we  find  him  when  he  comes  here  quite  interesting  and 
amusing.  But  needless  to  say  we  do  not  permit  him 
to  go  too  far.  We  do  not  allow  ourselves  to  be  inter- 
ested in  him  to  the  jeopardising  of  our  principles  or 
our  position  in  Yardley  Parva.  We  do  not  allow  our- 
selves to  be  amused  at  the  reflection  that  he  is  going 
in  the  wrong  direction;  on  the  contrary,  we  shudder 
when  it  strikes  us.  But  so  insidious  are  his  ways  that 
— Heaven  forgive  me — I  feel  that  he  tells  me  much 
that  I  do  not  know  about  what  is  true  and  what  is 


86  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

false,  and  that  if  he  were  to  leave  the  neighbourhood 
I  should  miss  him. 

It  is  strange  that  he  should  be  married  to  a  charm- 
ing woman,  who  is  a  daughter  of  probably  the  most 
orthodox  vicarage  in  the  Midlands — a  home  where 
every  Sunday  is  given  over  to  such  accessories  of 
orthodoxy  as  an  Early  Service,  Morning  Church, 
Sirloin  of  Beef  with  Yorkshire  Pudding,  Fruit  Tart 
and  Real  Egg  Custard,  Sunday  School,  the  Solution 
of  Acrostics,  Evening-song,  and  Cold  Chicken  with 
Salad. 

And  yet  she  could  ally  herself  with  a  man  who  does 
not  hesitate  to  express  the  opinion  that  if  a  child  dies 
before  it  is  baptized  it  should  not  be  assumed  that 
anything  particular  happens  to  it,  and  that  it  was  a 
great  pity  that  the  Church  was  upheld  by  three  mur- 
derers, the  first  being  Moses,  who  promulgated  the 
Ten  Commandments,  the  second  Paul,  who  promul- 
gated the  Christianity  accepted  by  the  Church,  and 
the  third  Constantine,  who  promulgated  the  Nicene 
Creed.  I  have  heard  him  say  this,  and  much  more, 
and  yet  beyond  a  doubt  his  wife  still  adores  him, 
laughs  at  him,  says  he  is  the  most  religious  man  she 
ever  knew,  and  goes  to  church  regularly! 

One  cannot  understand  such  a  thing  as  this.  In 
her  own  vicarage  home  every  breath  that  Mrs.  Fris- 
well  breathed  was  an  inspiration  of  the  Orthodox — 
and  yet  she  told  me  that  her  father,  who  was  for 
twenty-seven  years  Vicar  of  the  parish  and  the 
Bishop's  Surrogate,  thought  very  highly  of  Mr.  Fris- 
well  and  his  scholarship! 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  87 

That  is  another  thing  to  puzzle  over.  Of  course 
we  know  that  scholarship  has  got  nothing  to  do  with 
Orthodoxy — it  is  the  weak  things  of  the  world  that 
have  been  chosen  to  confound  the  wise — but  for  a 
vicar  of  the  Church  of  England  to  remain  on  friendly 
terms  with  an  atheist,  and  to  approve  of  his  daugh- 
ter's marriage  with  such  an  one,  is  surely  not  to  be 
understood  by  ordinary  people. 

I  do  not  know  whether  or  not  I  neglected  my  duty 
in  refraining  from  forbidding  Friswell  my  garden 
when  I  heard  him  say  that  the  God  worshipped  by  the 
Hebrews  with  bushels  of  incense  must  have  been  re- 
garded by  them  as  occupying  a  position  something 
like  that  of  the  chairman  of  the  smoking  concert;  and 
that  the  High  Church  parson  here  was  like  a  revue 
artist,  whose  ambition  is  to  have  as  many  changes  of 
costume  as  was  possible  in  every  performance;  but 
though  I  was  at  the  point  of  telling  him  that  even  my 
toleration  had  its  limits,  yet  somehow  I  did  not  like 
to  go  to  such  a  length  without  Dorothy's  permission; 
and  I  know  that  Dorothy  likes  him. 

She  says  the  children  are  fond  of  him,  and  she  her- 
self is  fond  of  Mrs.  Friswell. 

"  Yes,"  I  told  her,  "  you  would  not  have  me  kill  a 
viper  because  Rosamund  had  taken  a  fancy  to  its 
markings  and  its  graceful  action  before  darting  on 
its  prey." 

"  Don't  be  a  goose,"  said  she.  "  Do  you  suggest 
that  Mr.  Friswell  is  a  viper? ' 

"  Well,  if  a  viper  may  be  looked  on  as  a  type  of 
all ' 


88  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

"  Well,  if  he  is  a  viper,  didn't  St.  Paul  shake  one 
off  his  hand  into  the  fire  before  any  harm  was  done? 
I  think  we  would  do  well  to  leave  Mr.  Friswell  to  be 
dealt  with  by  St.  Paul." 

"  Meaning  that " 

"  That  if  the  exponent  of  the  Christianity  of  the 
Churches  cannot  be  so  interpreted  in  the  pulpits  that 
Mr.  Friswell's  sayings  are  rendered  harmless,  well, 
so  much  the  worse  for  the  Churches." 

"  There's  such  a  thing  as  being  too  liberal-minded, 
Dorothy,"  said  I  solemnly. 

"  I  suppose  there  is,"  said  she ;  "  but  you  will 
never  suffer  from  it,  my  beloved,  except  in  regard 
to  the  clematis  which  you  will  spare  every  autumn 
until  we  shall  shortly  have  no  blooms  on  it  at 
all." 

That  was  all  very  well;  but  I  was  uncertain  about 
Rosamund.  She  is  quite  old  enough  to  understand 
the  difference  between  what  Mr.  Friswell  says  in  the 
garden  and  what  the  Reverend  Thomas  Brown- 
Browne  says  in  the  pulpit.  I  asked  her  what  she  had 
been  talking  about  to  Mr.  Friswell  when  he  was  here 
last  week. 

"  I  believe  it  was  about  Elisha,"  she  replied.  "  Oh, 
yes;  I  remember  I  asked  him  if  he  did  not  think 
Elisha  a  horrid  vain  old  man." 

"You  asked  him  that?" 

'  Yes ;  it  was  in  the  first  lesson  last  Sunday — that 
about  the  bears  he  brought  out  of  the  wood  to  eat 
the  poor  children  who  had  made  fun  of  him — horrid 
old  man ! " 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  89 

"  Rosamund,  he  was  a  great  prophet — one  of  the 
greatest,"  said  I. 

"All  the  same  he  was  horrid!  He  must  have  been 
the  vainest  as  well  as  the  most  spiteful  old  man  that 
ever  lived.  What  a  shame  to  curse  the  poor  children 
because  they  acted  like  children!  You  know  that  if 
that  story  were  told  in  any  other  book  than  the  Bible 
you  would  be  the  first  to  be  down  on  Elisha.  If  I 
were  to  say  to  you,  Daddy,  "  Go  up,  thou  bald  head !  " 
— you  know  there's  a  little  bald  place  on  the  top 
there  that  you  try  to  brush  your  hair  over — if  I  were 
to  say  that  to  you,  what  would  you  do?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  should  go  at  you  bald-headed,  my 
dear,"  said  I  incautiously. 

"  I  don't  like  the  Bible  made  fun  of,"  said  Dorothy, 
who  overheard  what  I  did  not  mean  for  any  but  the 
sympathetic  ears  of  her  eldest  daughter. 

"  I'm  not  making  fun  of  it,  Mammy,"  said  the 
daughter.  "  Just  the  opposite.  Just  think  of  it — 
forty-two  children — only  it  sounds  much  more  when 
put  the  other  way,  and  that  makes  it  all  the  worse — 
forty  and  two  poor  children  cruelly  killed  because  a 
nasty  old  prophet  was  vain  and  ill-tempered ! " 

"  It  doesn't  say  that  he  had  any  hand  in  it,  does 
it? "  I  suggested  in  defence  of  the  Man  of  God. 

"  Well,  not — directly,"  replied  Rosamund.  "  But 
it  was  meant  to  make  out  that  he  had  a  hand  in  it. 
It  says  that  he  cursed  them  in  the  name  of  the  Lord." 

"  And  what  did  Mr.  Friswell  say  about  the  story? " 
inquired  Dorothy. 

"  Oh,  he  said  that,  being  a  prophet,  Elisha  wasn't 


90  a 

thinking  about  the  present,  but  the  future — the  time 
we're  living  in — the  Russian  Bear  or  the  Bolsheviks 
or  some  of  the — the — what's  the  thing  that  they  kill 
Jews  with  in  Russia,  Mammy?" 

"  I  don't  know — anything  that's  handy,  I  fancy, 
and  not  too  expensive,"  replied  the  mother. 

"  He  gave  it  a  name — was  it  programme?  "  asked 
the  child. 

"  Oh,  a  pogrom — a  pogrom;  though  I  fancy  a  pro- 
gramme of  Russian  music  would  have  been  equally 
effective,"  I  put  in.  ;<  Well,  Mr.  Friswell  may  be 
right  about  the  bears.  I  suppose  it's  the  business  of 
a  prophet  to  prophesy.  But  I  should  rather  fancy, 
looking  at  the  transaction  from  the  standpoint  of  a 
flutter  in  futures,  and  also  that  the  prophet  had  the 
instincts  of  Israel,  that  his  bears  had  something  to  do 
with  the  Stock  Exchange." 

"  Mr.  Friswell  said  nothing  about  that,"  said  Rosa- 
mund. "  But  he  explained  about  Naaman  and  his 
leprosy  and  how  he  was  cured." 

"  It  tells  us  that  in  the  Bible,  my  dear,"  said 
Dorothy,  "  so  of  course  it  is  true.  He  washed  seven 
times  in  the  Jordan." 

'  Yes,  Mr.  Friswell  says  that  it  is  now  known  that 
half  a  dozen  of  the  complaints  translated  leprosy  in 
the  Bible  were  not  the  real  leprosy,  and  it  was  from 
one  of  these  that  Naaman  was  suffering,  and  what 
Elisha  did  was  simply  to  prescribe  for  him  a  course 
of  seven  baths  in  the  Jordan  which  he  knew  contained 
sulphur  or  something  that  is  good  for  people  with 
that  complaint.  He  believes  in  all  the  miracles.  He 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  91 

says  that  what  was  looked  on  as  a  miracle  a  few  years 
ago  is  an  everyday  thing  now." 

"  He's  quite  right,  darling,"  said  Dorothy  approv- 
ingly. Then  turning  to  me,  "  You  see,  Mr.  Friswell 
has  really  been  doing  his  best  to  keep  the  children 
right,  though  you  were  afraid  that  he  would  have  a 
bad  effect  upon  them." 

"  I  see,"  said  I.  "  I  was  too  hasty  in  my  judgment. 
He  is  a  man  of  uncompromising  orthodoxy.  We 
shall  see  him  holding  a  class  in  Sunday-school  next, 
or  solving  acrostics  instead  of  sleeping  after  the  Sun- 
day Sirloin.  Did  he  explain  the  Gehazi  business, 
Rosamund? " 

"  He  said  that  he  was  at  first  staggered  when  he 
heard  that  Elisha  had  refused  the  suits  of  clothes; 
but  if  Elisha  did  so,  he  is  sure  that  his  descendants 
have  been  making  up  for  his  self-denial  ever  since." 

"  But  about  Gehazi  catching  the  leprosy  or  what- 
ever it  was?  " 

"  I  said  I  thought  it  was  too  awful  a  punishment 
for  so  small  a  thing,  though,  of  course,  it  was  dread- 
fully mean  of  Gehazi.  But  Mr.  Friswell  laughed  and 
said  that  I  had  forgotten  that  all  Gehazi  had  to  do 
to  make  himself  all  right  again  was  to  follow  the  pre- 
scription given  to  Naaman;  so  he  wasn't  so  hard  on 
the  man  after  all." 

"There,  you  see!"  cried  Dorothy  triumphantly. 
"  You  talk  to  me  about  the  bad  influence  Mr.  Fris- 
well may  have  upon  the  children,  and  now  you  find 
that  he  has  been  doing  his  best  to  make  the  difficult 
parts  of  the  Bible  credible !  For  my  own  part,  I  feel 


92  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

that  a  flood  of  new  light  has  been  shed  by  him  over 
some  incidents  with  which  I  was  not  in  sympathy 
before." 

"  All  right,  have  it  your  own  way,"  said  I. 

"  You  old  goose!  "  said  she.  "  Don't  I  know  that 
why  you  have  your  knife  in  poor  Friswell  is  simply 
because  he  thought  your  scheme  of  treillage  was  too 
elaborate." 

"  Anyhow  I'm  going  to  carry  it  out  '  according  to 
plan,'  to  make  use  of  a  classic  phrase,"  said  I. 

And  then  I  hurried  off  to  the  tool-house;  and  it 
was  only  when  I  had  been  there  for  some  time  that 
I  remembered  that  the  phrase  which  I  had  fancied  I 
was  quoting  very  aptly,  was  the  explanation  of  a 
retreat. 

I  hoped  that  it  would  not  strike  Dorothy  in  that 
way,  and  induce  her  to  remind  me  that  it  was  much 
apter  than  I  had  desired  it  to  be. 

But  there  is  no  doubt  that  Friswell  was  right 
about  Gehazi  carrying  out  the  prescription  given  to 
Naaman,  for  he  remained  in  the  service  of  the 
prophet,  and  he  would  not  have  been  allowed  to  do 
that  if  he  had  been  a  leper. 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTH 

I  HAVE  devoted  the  foregoing  chapter  to  Friswell 
without,  I  trust,  any  unnecessary  acrimony,  but  simply 
to  show  the  sort  of  man  he  was  who  took  exception 
to  the  scheme  of  Formal  Garden  that  I  disclosed  to 
him  long  ago.  He  actually  objected  to  the  Formal 
Garden  which  I  had  in  my  mind. 

But  an  atheist,  like  the  prophet  Habakkuk  of  the 
witty  Frenchman,  is  "  capable  de  tout." 

I  have  long  ago  forgiven  Friswell  for  his  vexatious 
objection,  but  I  admit  that  I  am  only  human,  and 
that  now  and  again  I  awake  in  the  still  hours  of  dark- 
ness from  a  nightmare  in  which  I  am  tramping  over 
formal  beds  of  three  sorts  of  echiverias,  pursued  by 
Friswell,  flinging  at  me  every  now  and  again  Mr.  W. 
Robinson's  volume  on  Garden  Design,  which,  as  every 
one  knows,  is  an  unbridled  denunciation  of  Sir  Regin- 
ald Blomfield's  and  Mr.  Inigo  Triggs's  plea  for  The 
Formal  Garden.  But  I  soon  fall  asleep  again 
with,  I  trust,  a  smile  struggling  to  the  surface  of 
the  perspiration  on  my  brow,  as  I  reflect  upon 
my  success  in  spite  of)  Friswell  and  the  anti- 
formalists. 

More  than  twenty-five  years  have  passed  since  the 
battle  of  the  books  on  the  Formal  Garden  took  place, 

93 


94  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

adding  another  instance  to  the  many  brought  forward 
by  Dorothy  of  a  garden  being  a  battlefield  instead  of 
a  place  of  peace.  I  shall  refer  to  the  fight  in  another 
chapter;  for  surely  a  stimulating  spectacle  was  that 
of  the  distinguished  horticulturalist  attacking  the 
distinguished  architect  with  mighty  billets  of  yews 
which,  like  Samson  before  his  fall,  had  never  known 
shears  or  secateur,  while  the  distinguished  architect 
responded  with  bricks  pulled  hastily  out  from  his 
builders'  wall.  In  the  meantime  I  shall  try  to  account 
for  my  treatment  of  my  predecessor's  lawn,  which, 
as  I  have  already  mentioned,  occupied  all  the  flat  space 
between  the  house  and  the  mound  with  the  cherries 
and  mays  and  laburnums  towered  over  by  the  syca- 
mores and  chestnuts. 

It  was  all  suggested  to  me  by  the  offer  which  I  had 
at  breaking-up  price  of  what  I  might  call  a  "  garden 
suite,"  consisting  of  a  fountain,  with  a  wide  basin,  and 
the  carved  stone  edging  for  eight  beds — sufficient  to 
transform  the  whole  area  of  the  lawn  "  into  something 
rich  and  strange," — as  I  thought. 

I  had  to  make  up  my  mind  in  a  hurry,  and  I  did  so, 
though  not  without  misgiving.  I  had  never  had  a 
chance  of  high  gardening  before,  and  I  had  not  so 
much  confidence  in  myself  as  I  have  acquired  since, 
misplaced  though  it  may  be,  in  spite  of  my  experience. 
I  see  now  what  a  bold  step  it  was  for  me  to  take,  and 
I  think  it  is  quite  likely  that  I  would  have  rejected  it 
if  I  had  had  any  time  to  consider  all  that  it  meant. 
I  had,  however,  no  more  than  twenty-four  hours,  and 
before  a  fourth  of  that  time  had  passed  I  received 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  95 

some  encouragement  in  the  form  of  my  publisher's 
half-yearly  statement. 

Now,  Dorothy  and  I  had  simply  been  garden- 
lovers — I  mean  lovers  of  gardens,  though  I  don't  take 
back  the  original  phrase.  We  had  never  been  garden 
enthusiasts.  We  had  gone  through  the  Borghese, 
the  Villa  d'Este,  the  Vatican,  the  bowers  behind  the 
Pitti  and  the  Uffizi,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  show-places 
of  Italy  and  the  French  Riviera — we  had  spent 
delightful  days  at  every  garden-island  of  the  Carib- 
bean, and  had  gone  on  to  the  plateaus  of  South 
America,  where  every  prospect  pleases  and  there  is 
a  blaze  of  flowers  beneath  the  giant  yuccas — we  had 
even  explored  Kew  together,  and  we  had  lived  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  Holland  House  and  the  painters' 
pleasaunces  of  Me]  bury  Road,  but  with  all  we  had 
remained  content  to  think  of  gardens  without  making 
them  any  important  part  of  our  life.  And  this  being 
so,  I  now  see  how  arrogant  was  that  act  of  mine  in 
binding  myself  down  to  a  transaction  with  as  far- 
reaching  consequences  to  me  as  that  of  Dr.  Faustus 
entailed  to  him. 

Now  I  acknowledge  that  when  I  looked  out  over  the 
green  lawn  and  thought  of  all  that  I  had  let  myself 
in  for,  I  felt  anything  but  arrogant.  The  destruction 
of  a  lawn  is,  like  the  state  of  matrimony  in  the  Church 
Service,  an  act  not  to  be  lightly  entered  into;  and  I 
think  I  might  have  laid  away  all  that  stone-work 
which  had  come  to  me,  until  I  should  become  more 
certain  of  myself — that  is  how  a  good  many  people 
think  within  a  week  or  two  of  marriage — if  I  had  not, 


96 

with  those  doubts  hanging  over  me,  wandered  away 
from  the  lawn  and  within  sight  of  the  straggling 
orchard  with  its  rows  of  ill-planted  plums  and  apples 
that  had  plainly  borne  nothing  but  leaves  for  many 
years.  They  were  becoming  an  eye-sore  to  me,  and  the 
thought  came  in  a  flash: — 

"  This  is  the  place  for  a  lawn.  Why  not  root  up 
these  unprofitable  and  uninteresting  things  and  lay 
down  the  space  in  grass? " 

Why  not,  indeed?  The  more  I  thought  over  the 
matter  the  more  reconciled  I  became  to  the  trans- 
formation of  the  house  lawn.  I  felt  as  I  fancy  the 
father  of  a  well-beloved  daughter  must  feel  when  she 
tells  him  that  she  has  promised  to  marry  the  son  of 
the  house  at  the  other  side  of  his  paddock.  He  is 
reconciled  to  the  idea  of  parting  with  her  by  the 
reflection  that  she  will  still  be  living  beyond  the  fence, 
and  that  he  will  enjoy  communion  with  her  under 
altered  conditions.  That  is  the  difference  between 
parting  with  a  person  and  parting  from  a  person. 

And  now,  when  I  looked  at  the  house  lawn,  I  saw 
that  it  had  no  business  to  be  there.  It  was  an  element 
of  incongruity.  It  made  the  house  look  as  if  it  were 
built  in  the  middle  of  a  field.  A  field  is  all  very  well 
in  its  place,  and  a  house  is  all  very  well  in  its  place, 
but  the  place  of  the  house  is  not  in  the  middle  of  a 
field.  It  looks  its  worst  there  and  the  field  looks  its 
worst  when  the  house  is  overlooking  it. 

I  think  that  it  is  this  impression  of  incongruity  that 
has  made  what  is  called  The  Formal  Garden  a  ne- 
cessity of  these  days.  We  want  a  treatment  that  will 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  97 

take  away  from  the  abruptness  of  the  mass  of  bricks 
and  mortar  rising  straight  up  from  the  simplest  of 
Nature's  elements.  We  want  a  hyphenated  House- 
and-Garden  which  we  can  look  on  as  one  and  indi- 
visible, like  the  First  French  Republic. 

In  short,  I  think  that  the  making  of  the  Formal 
Garden  is  the  marriage  ceremony  that  unites  the 
house  to  its  site,  "  and  the  twain  shall  be  one  flesh." 

That  is  really  the  relative  position  of  the  two.  I 
hold  that  there  are  scores  of  forms  of  garden  that  may 
be  espoused  to  a  house ;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  such 
a  term  as  Formal  is  not  misleading  to  a  large  number 
of  people  who  think  that  Nature  should  begin  the 
moment  that  one  steps  out  of  one's  house,  and  that 
nothing  in  Nature  is  formal.  I  am  not  going  to  take 
on  me  any  definition  of  the  constituent  elements  of 
what  is  termed  the  Formal  Garden,  but  I  will  take  it 
on  me  to  stand  up  against  such  people  as  would  have 
us  believe  that  the  moment  you  enter  a  house  you 
leave  Nature  outside.  A  house  is  as  much  a  product 
of  Nature  as  a  woodland  or  a  rabbit  warren  or  a  lawn. 
The  original  house  of  that  product  of  Nature  known 
as  man  was  that  product  of  Nature  known  as  a  cave. 
For  thousands  of  years  before  he  got  into  his  cave  he 
had  made  his  abode  in  the  woodland.  It  was  when  he 
found  he  could  do  better  than  hang  on  to  his  bough 
and,  with  his  toes,  take  the  eggs  out  of  whatever  nests 
he  could  get  at,  that  he  made  the  cave  his  dwelling; 
and  thousands  of  years  later  he  found  that  it  was 
more  convenient  to  build  up  the  clay  into  the  shape 
of  a  cave  than  to  scoop  out  the  hillside  when  he  wanted 


98  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

an  addition  to  the  dwelling  provided  for  him  in  the 
hollows  made  by  that  natural  incident  known  as  a 
landslide.  But  the  dwelling-house  of  to-day  is  nothing 
more  than  a  cave  built  up  instead  of  scooped  out. 
Whether  made  of  brick,  stone,  or  clay — all  products 
of  Nature — it  is  fundamentally  the  same  as  the 
primeval  cave  dwelling;  just  as  a  Corinthian  column 
is  fundamentally  identical  with  the  palm-tree  which 
primeval  man  brought  into  his  service  when  he  wished 
to  construct  a  dwelling  independent  of  the  forest  of 
his  pendulous  ancestors.  The  rabbit  is  at  present  in 
the  stage  of  development  of  the  men  who  scooped  out 
their  dwellings ;  the  beaver  is  in  the  stage  of  develop- 
ment of  the  men  who  gave  up  scooping  and  took  to 
building ;  and  will  any  one  suggest  that  a  rabbit  warren 
or  a  beaver  village  is  not  Nature? 

Sir  R.  Blomfield,  in  his  book  to  which  I  have 
alluded,  will  not  have  this  at  all.  :'  The  building,"  he 
says,  "  cannot  resemble  anything  in  Nature,  unless 
you  are  content  with  a  mud  hut  and  cover  it  with 
grass."  That  may  be  true  enough;  but  great  archi- 
tect that  he  is,  he  would  have  shown  himself  more 
faithful  to  his  profession  if  he  had  been  more  careful 
about  his  foundations.  If  he  goes  a  little  deeper  into 
the  matter  he  will  find  that  man  has  not  yet  been 
civilised  or  "  architected "  out  of  the  impressions 
left  upon  him  by  his  thousands  of  years  of  cave-dwell- 
ing, any  more  than  he  has  been  out  of  his  arboreal 
experiences  of  as  many  thousand  years.  While,  as 
a  boy,  he  retains  vividly  those  impressions  of  his  ances- 
tors which  gradually  wear  off — though  never  so 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  99 

completely  as  to  leave  no  trace  behind  them — he  can- 
not be  restrained  from  climbing  trees  and  enjoying 
the  motion  of  a  swing ;  and  his  chief  employment  when 
left  to  his  own  devices  is  scooping  out  a  cave  in  a 
sand-bank.  For  the  first  ten  or  fifteen  years  of  his 
life  a  man  is  in  his  instincts  many  thousand  years 
nearer  to  his  prehistoric  relations  than  he  is  when 
he  is  twenty;  after  that  the  inherited  impressions  be- 
come blurred,  but  never  wholly  wiped  out.  He  is 
still  stirred  to  the  deepest  depths  of  his  nature  by  the 
long  tresses  of  a  woman,  just  as  was  his  early  parent, 
who  knew  that  he  had  to  depend  on  such  long  tresses 
to  drag  the  female  on  whom  he  had  set  his  heart  to 
his  cave. 

Scores  of  examples  could  be  given  of  the  retention 
of  these  inherited  instincts;  but  many  of  them  are 
in  more  than  one  sense  of  the  phrase,  "  far-fetched." 
When,  however,  we  know  that  the  architectural  design 
which  finds  almost  universal  favour  is  that  of  the 
column  or  the  pilaster — which  is  little  more  than  the 
palm-tree  of  the  Oriental  forest  of  many  thousand 
years  ago — I  think  we  are  justified  in  assuming  that 
we  have  not  yet  quite  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  our 
dwellings  are  most  acceptable  when  they  retain  such 
elements  as  are  congenial  with  their  ancient  homes, 
which  homes  were  undoubtedly  incidents  in  the  natu- 
ral landscape. 

That  is  why  I  think  that  the  right  way  to  claim 
its  appropriateness  for  what  is  called  the  Formal 
Garden  is,  not  that  a  house  has  no  place  in  Nature, 
and  therefore  its  immediate  surrounding  should  be 


100  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

more  or  less  artificial,  but  that  the  house  is  an  inci- 
dent in  Nature  modified  by  what  is  termed  Art, 
and  therefore  the  surround  should  be  of  the  same 
character. 

At  the  same  time,  I  beg  leave  to  say  in  this  place 
that  I  am  not  so  besotted  upon  my  own  opinion  as 
to  be  incapable  of  acknowledging  that  Sir  R.  Blom- 
field's  belief  that  a  house  can  never  be  regarded  as 
otherwise  than  wholly  artificial,  may  commend  itself 
to  a  much  larger  clientele  than  I  can  hope  for. 

In  any  case  the  appropriateness  of  the  Formal  Gar- 
den has  been  proved  (literally)  down  to  the  ground. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  no  one  ever  thought  of  question- 
ing it  in  England  until  some  remarkable  innovators, 
who  called  themselves  Landscape  Gardeners,  thought 
they  saw  their  way  to  work  on  a  new  system,  and  in 
doing  so  contrived  to  destroy  many  interesting  fea- 
tures of  the  landscape. 

But  really,  landscape  gardening  has  never  been 
consistently  defined.  Its  exponents  have  always 
been  slovenly  and  inconsistent  in  stating  their  aims; 
so  that  while  they  claim  to  be  all  for  giving  what  they 
call  Nature  the  supreme  place  in  their  designs,  it 
must  appear  to  most  people  that  the  achievement  of 
these  designs  entails  treating  Nature  most  un- 
naturally. The  landscape  gardeners  of  the  early 
years  of  the  cult  seem  to  me  to  be  in  the  position  of 
the  boy  of  whom  the  parents  said,  "  Charlie  is  so  very 
fond  of  animals  that  we  are  going  to  make  a  butcher 
of  him."  To  read  their  enunciation  of  the  principles 
by  which  they  professed  to  be  inspired  is  to  make  one 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  101 

feel  that  they  thought  the  butchery  of  a  landscape 
the  only  way  to  beautify  it. 

But,  I  repeat,  the  examples  of  their  work  with  which 
we  are  acquainted  show  but  a  small  amount  of  con- 
sistency with  their  professions  of  faith.  When  we  read 
the  satires  that  were  written  upon  their  work  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  we  really  feel  that  the  lampooners 
have  got  hold  of  the  wrong  brief,  and  that  they  are 
ridiculing  the  upholders  of  the  Formal  Garden. 

So  far  as  I  was  concerned  in  dealing  with  my  insig- 
nificant garden  home,  I  did  not  concern  myself  with 
principles  or  theories  or  schools  or  consistency  or 
inconsistency ;  I  went  ahead  as  I  pleased,  and  though 
Friswell  shook  his  head — I  have  not  finished  with  him 
yet  on  account  of  that  mute  expression  of  disagree- 
ment with  my  aims — I  enjoyed  myself  thoroughly,  if 
now  and  again  with  qualms  of  uneasiness,  in  laying 
out  what  I  feel  I  must  call  the  House  Garden  rather 
than  the  Formal  Garden,  where  the  lawn  had  spread 
itself  abroad,  causing  the  wing  of  the  house  to  have 
something  of  the  appearance  of  a  lighthouse  springing 
straight  up  from  a  green  sea.  As  it  is  now,  that  green 
expanse  suggests  a  tropical  sea  with  many  brilliant 
islands  breaking  up  its  placid  surface. 

That  satisfies  me.  If  the  lighthouse  remains,  I  have 
given  it  a  raison  d'etre  by  strewing  the  sea  with  islands, 

I  made  my  appeal  to  Olive,  the  practical  one. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  after  one  of  her  thoughtful  inter- 
vals. '  Yes,  I  think  it  does  look  naturaler." 

And  I  do  believe  it  does. 


CHAPTER  THE  NINTH 

I  DIFFER  from  many  people  who  know  more  about 
garden-making  than  I  know  or  than  I  ever  shall  know, 
in  believing  that  it  is  unnecessary  for  the  House  Gar- 
den—I will  adopt  this  name  for  it — to  be  paved  be- 
tween the  beds.  I  have  seen  this  paving  done  in  many 
cases,  and  to  my  mind  it  adds  without  any  need  what- 
soever a  certain  artificiality  to  the  appearance  of  this 
feature  of  the  garden.  By  all  means  let  the  paths  be 
paved  with  stone  or  brick ;  I  have  had  all  mine  treated 
in  this  way,  and  thereby  made  them  more  natural  in 
appearance,  suggesting,  as  they  do,  the  dry  water- 
course of  a  stream:  every  time  I  walk  on  them  I 
remember  the  summer  aspect  of  that  beautiful  water- 
course at  Funchal  in  the  island  of  Madeira,  which 
becomes  a  thoroughfare  for  several  months  of  the 
year;  but  I  am  sure  that  the  stone  edgings  of  the 
beds  and  of  the  fountain  basin  look  much  better 
surrounded  by  grass.  All  that  one  requires  to  do 
in  order  to  bring  the  House  Garden  in  touch  with 
the  house  is  to  bring  something  of  the  material  of  the 
house  on  to  the  lawn,  and  to  force  the  house  to 
reciprocate  with  a  mantle  of  ampelopsis  patterned 
with  clematis. 

All  that  I  did  was  to  remove  the  turf  within  the 

102 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  103 

boundary  of  my  stone  edging  and  add  the  necessary 
soil.  A  week  was  sufficient  for  all,  including  the  foun- 
tain basin  and  the  making  of  the  requisite  attachment 
to  the  main  water  pipe  which  supplies  the  garden 
from  end  to  end. 

And  here  let  me  advise  any  possible  makers  of 
garden  fountains  on  no  account  to  neglect  the  intro- 
duction of  a  second  outlet  and  tap  for  the  purpose 
of  emptying  the  pipe  during  a  frost.  The  cost  will 
be  very  little  extra,  and  the  operation  will  prevent  so 
hideous  a  catastrophe  as  the  bursting  of  a  pipe  pass- 
ing through  or  below  the  concrete  basin.  My  plumber 
knew  his  business,  and  I  have  felt  grateful  to  him  for 
making  such  a  provision  against  disaster,  when  I  have 
found  six  inches  of  ice  in  the  basin  after  a  week's 
frost. 

At  first  I  was  somewhat  timid  over  the  planting  of 
the  stone-edged  beds.  I  had  heard  of  carpet  bedding, 
and  I  had  heard  it  condemned  without  restraint.  I 
had  also  seen  several  examples  of  it  in  public  gardens 
at  seaside  places  and  elsewhere,  which  impressed  me 
only  by  the  ingenuity  of  their  garishness.  Some  one, 
too,  had  put  the  veto  upon  any  possible  tendency  on 
my  part  to  such  a  weakness  by  uttering  the  most 
condemnatory  words  in  the  vocabulary  of  art — Early 
Victorian!  To  be  on  the  safe  side  I  planted  the  beds 
with  herbaceous  flowers,  only  reserving  two  for 
fuchsias,  of  which  I  have  always  been  extremely 
fond. 

I  soon  came  to  find  out  that  a  herbaceous  scheme 
in  that  place  was  a  mistake.  For  two  months  we  had 


104  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

to  look  at  flowers  growing,  for  a  month  we  had  to  look 
at  things  rampant,  and  for  a  month  we  had  to  watch 
things  withering.  At  no  time  was  there  an  equal  show 
of  colour  in  all  the  beds.  The  blaze  of  beauty  I  had 
hoped  for  never  appeared:  here  and  there  we  had  a 
flash  of  it,  but  it  soon  flickered  out,  much  to  our  dis- 
appointment. If  the  period  of  the  ramp  had  syn- 
chronised for  all  the  beds  it  would  not  have  been  so 
bad;  but  when  one  subject  was  rampant  the  others 
were  couchant,  and  no  one  was  pleased. 

The  next  year  we  tried  some  more  dwarf  varieties 
and  such  annuals  as  verbenas,  zinnias,  scabious,  gode- 
tias,  and  clarkias,  but  although  every  one  came  on  all 
right,  yet  they  did  not  come  on  simultaneously,  and  I 
felt  defrauded  of  my  chromatic  effects.  A  consider- 
able number  of  people  thought  the  beds  quite  a  suc- 
cess; but  we  could  not  see  with  their  eyes,  and  our 
feeling  was  one  of  disappointment. 

Happily,  at  this  time  I  bought  for  a  few  shillings 
a  few  boxes  of  the  ordinary  echeveria  secunda  glauca, 
and,  curiously  enough,  the  same  day  I  came  upon  a 
public  place  where  several  beds  of  the  same  type  as 
mine,  set  in  an  enclosed  space  of  emerald  grass,  were 
planted  with  echeveria  and  other  succulents,  in  pat- 
terns, with  a  large  variety  of  brilliantly-coloured 
foliage  and  a  few  dwarf  calceolarias  and  irisines.  In 
a  moment  I  thought  I  saw  that  this  was  exactly  what 
I  needed — whether  it  was  carpet  bedding  or  early 
Victorian  or  inartistic,  this  was  what  I  wanted,  and  I 
knew  that  I  should  not  be  happy  until  I  got  it.  Every 
bed  looked  like  a  stanza  of  Keats,  or  a  box  of  enamels 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  105 

from  the  Faubourg  de  Magnine  in  Limoges,  where 
Nicholas  Laudin  worked. 

That  was  three  years  ago,  and  although  I  planted 
out  over  three  thousand  echeverias  last  summer,  I 
had  not  to  buy  another  box  of  the  same  variety ;  I  had 
only  to  find  some  other  succulents  and  transplant 
some  violas  in  order  to  achieve  all  that  I  hoped  for 
from  these  beds.  For  three  years  they  have  been 
altogether  satisfying  with  their  orderly  habits  and 
reposeful  colouring.  The  glauca  is  the  shade  that  the 
human  eye  can  rest  upon  day  after  day  without  weari- 
ness, and  the  pink  and  blue  and  yellow  and  purple 
violas  which  I  asked  for  a  complement  of  colours,  do 
all  that  I  hoped  they  would  do. 

Of  course  we  have  friends  who  walk  round  the 
garden,  look  at  those  beds  with  dull  eyes  of  disap- 
proval, and  walk  on  after  imparting  information 
on  some  contentious  point,  such  as  the  necessity  to 
remove  the  shoots  from  the  briers  of  standard  roses, 
or  the  assurance  that  the  slugs  are  fond  of  the  leaves 
of  hollyhock.  We  have  an  occasional  visitor  who 
says, — 

"  Isn't  carpet-bedding  rather  old-fashioned?  " 

So  I  have  seen  a  lady  in  the  spacious  days  of  the 
late  seventies  shake  her  head  and  smile  pityingly  in 
a  room  furnished  with  twelve  ribbon-back  chairs  made 
by  the  great  Director. 

"Old-fashioned — gone  out  years  ago!"  were  the 
terms  of  her  criticism. 

But  so  far  as  I  am  concerned  I  would  have  no  more 
objection  to  one  of  the  ribbon-borders  of  long  ago,  if 


106  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

it  was  in  a  suitable  place,  than  I  would  have  to  a  round 
dozen  of  ribbon-back  chairs  in  a  panelled  room  with 
a  mantelpiece  by  Bossi  and  a  glass  chandelier  by  one 
of  the  Adam  Brothers.  It  is  only  the  uninformed 
who  are  ready  to  condemn  something  because  they 
think  that  it  is  old-fashioned,  just  as  it  is  only  the 
ignorant  who  extol  something  because  it  happens  to  be 
antique.  I  was  once  lucky  enough  to  be  able  to  buy 
an  exquisitely  chased  snuff-box  because  the  truthful 
catalogue  had  described  it  as  made  of  pinchbeck.  For 
the  good  folk  in  the  saleroom  the  word  pinchbeck 
was  enough.  It  was  associated  in  their  minds  with 
something  that  was  a  type  of  the  meretricious.  But 
the  pinchbeck  amalgam  was  a  beautiful  one,  and  the 
workmanship  of  some  of  the  articles  made  of  it  was 
usually  of  the  highest  class.  Now  that  people  are 
better  educated  they  value — or  at  least  some  of  them 
value — a  pinchbeck  buckle  or  snuff-box  for  its  artistic 
beauty. 

We  see  our  garden  more  frequently  than  do  any  of 
our  visitors,  and  we  are  satisfied  with  its  details— 
within  bounds,  of  course.  It  has  never  been  our 
ambition  to  emulate  the  authorities  who  control  the 
floral  designs  blazing  in  the  borders  along  the  sea- 
front  of  one  of  our  watering-places,  which  are  admired 
to  distraction  by  trippers  under  the  influence  of  a 
rag-time  band  and  other  stimulants.  We  do  not 
long  so  greatly  to  see  a  floral  Union  Jack  in  all  its 
glory  at  our  feet,  or  any  loyal  sentiment  lettered  in 
dwarf  beet  and  blue  lobelia  against  a  background 
of  crimson  irisine.  We  know  very  well  that  such 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  107 

marvels  are  beyond  our  accomplishment.  What  we 
hoped  for  was  to  have  under  our  eyes  for  three  months 
of  the  year  a  number  of  beds  full  of  wallflowers, 
tulips,  and  hyacinths,  and  for  four  months  equally 
well  covered  with  varied  violas,  memsembrianthium, 
mauve  ageratum,  the  praecox  dwarf  roses,  variegated 
cactus  used  sparingly,  and  as  many  varieties  of  eche- 
veria  used  lavishly,  with  here  and  there  a  small  dracsena 
or  perhaps  a  tuft  of  feathery  grass  or  the  accentuations 
of  a  few  crimson  begonias  to  show  that  we  are  not 
afraid  of  anything. 

We  hold  that  the  main  essential  of  the  beds  of  the 
House  Garden  is  "  finish.'*  They  must  look  well  from 
the  day  they  are  planted  in  the  third  week  of  May 
until  they  are  removed  in  the  last  week  of  October. 
We  do  not  want  that  barren  interval  of  a  month  or 
six  weeks  when  the  tulips  have  been  lifted  and  their 
successors  are  growing.  We  do  not  want  a  single  day 
of  empty  beds  or  colourless  beds;  we  do  not  want  to 
see  a  square  inch  of  the  soil.  We  want  colour  and 
contour  under  our  eyes  from  the  first  day  of  March 
until  the  end  of  October,  and  we  get  it.  We  have  no 
trouble  with  dead  leaves  or  drooping  blooms — no 
trouble  with  snails  or  slugs  or  leather- jackets.  Every 
bed  is  presentable  for  the  summer  when  the  flowers 
that  bloom  in  the  spring  have  been  removed;  the 
effect  is  only  agreeably  diversified  when  the  begonias 
show  themselves  in  July. 

Is  the  sort  of  thing  that  I  have  described  to  be  called 
carpet-bedding?  I  know  not  and  I  trow  not;  all  that 
I  know  is  that  it  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  suits  us. 


108  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

Geometry  is  its  foundation  and  geometry  represents 
all  that  is  satisfying,  because  it  is  Nature's  closest 
ally  when  Nature  wishes  to  produce  Beauty.  Almost 
every  flower  is  a  geometrical  study.  Let  rose  bushes 
ramp  as  they  may,  the  sum  of  all  their  ramping  is 
that  triumph  of  geometry,  the  rose.  Let  the  clematis 
climb  as  unruly  as  it  may,  the  end  of  its  labours  is  a 
geometrical  star;  let  the  dandelion  be  as  disagreeable 
as  it  pleases — I  don't  intend  to  do  so  really,  only  for 
the  sake  of  argument —  but  its  rows  of  teeth  are  beauti- 
fully geometrical,  and  the  fairy  finish  of  its  life,  which 
means,  alas !  the  magical  beginning  of  a  thousand  new 
lives,  is  a  geometrical  marvel. 

But  I  do  not  want  to  accuse  myself  of  excusing 
myself  over  much  for  my  endeavour  to  restore  a 
fashion  which  I  was  told  had  "  gone  out."  I  only  say 
that  if  what  I  have  done  in  my  stone-edged  geometri- 
cal beds  is  to  be  slighted  because  some  fool  has  called 
it  carpet-bedding,  I  shall  at  least  have  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  I  have  worked  on  the  lines  of  Nature. 
Nature  is  the  leader  of  the  art  of  carpet-bedding  on 
geometrical  lines.  Nature's  most  beautiful  spring 
mattress  is  a  carpet  bed  of  primroses,  wild  hyacinths, 
daffodils,  and  daisies — every  one  of  them  a  geometri- 
cal marvel.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  design  of  every 
formal  bed  in  our  garden  is  a  copy  of  a  snow  crystal. 

Of  course,  so  far  as  conforming  to  the  dictates  of 
fashion  in  a  garden  is  concerned,  I  admit  that  I  am  a 
nonconformist.  I  do  not  think  that  any  one  who 
has  any  real  affection  for  the  development  of  a  garden 
will  be  ready  to  conform  to  any  fashion  of  the  hour 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  109 

in  gardening.  I  believe  that  there  never  was  a  time 
when  the  artistic  as  well  as  the  scientific  side  of  garden 
design  was  so  fully  understood  or  so  faithfully  adhered 
to  as  it  is  just  now.  There  is  nothing  to  fear  from 
the  majority  of  the  exponents  of  the  art;  it  is  with 
the  unconsidering  amateurs  that  the  danger  lies.  The 
dangerous  amateur  is  the  one  who  assumes  that  there 
is  fashion  in  gardening  as  there  is  a  fashion  in  gar- 
ments, and  that  one  must  at  all  hazards  live  up  to  the 
dernier  cri  or  get  left  behind  in  the  search  for  the  right 
thing.  For  instance,  within  the  last  six  or  seven  years 
it  has  become  "  the  right  thing  "  to  have  a  sunk  gar- 
den. Now  a  sunk  garden  is,  literally,  as  old  as  the 
hills ;  the  channel  worn  in  the  depth  of  a  valley  by  an 
intermittent  stream  becomes  a  sunk  garden  in  the 
summer.  The  Dutch,  not  having  the  advantage  of 
hills  and  vales,  were  compelled  to  imitate  Nature  by 
sinking  their  flower-patches  below  the  level  of  the 
ground.  They  were  quite  successful  in  their  attempt 
to  put  the  garden  under  their  eyes;  by  such  means 
they  were  able  fully  to  admire  the  patterns  in  which 
their  bulbs  were  arranged.  But  where  is  the  sense 
in  adopting  in  England  the  handicap  of  Holland? 
It  is  obvious  that  if  one  can  look  down  upon  a  garden 
from  a  terrace  one  does  not  need  to  sink  the  ground 
to  a  lower  level.  And  yet  I  have  known  of  several 
instances  of  people  insisting  on  having  a  sunk  garden 
just  under  a  terrace.  They  had  heard  that  sunk  gar- 
dens were  the  fashion  and  they  would  not  be  happy 
if  there  was  a  possibility  of  any  one  thinking  that  they 
were  out  of  the  fashion. 


110  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

Then  the  charm  of  the  rock  garden  was  being 
largely  advertised  and  talked  about,  so  mounds  of 
broken  bricks  and  stones  and  "  slag  "  and  rubbish  arose 
alongside  the  trim  villas,  and  the  occupants  slept  in 
peace  knowing  that  those  heights  of  rubbish  repre- 
sented the  height — the  heights  of  fashion.  Then  came 
the  "  crevice  "  fashion.  A  conscientious  writer  dis- 
coursed of  the  beauty  of  the  little  things  that  grow 
between  the  bricks  of  old  walls,  and  forthwith  yards 
of  walls,  guaranteed  to  be  of  old  bricks,  sprang  up  in 
every  direction,  with  hand-made  crevices  in  which 
little  gems  that  had  never  been  seen  on  walls  before, 
were  stuck,  and  simple  nurserymen  were  told  that 
they  were  long  behind  the  time  because  they  were 
unable  to  meet  the  demand  for  house  leeks.  I  have 
seen  a  ten-feet  length  of  wall  raised  almost  in  the 
middle  of  a  villa  garden  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
provide  a  foot-hold  for  lichens.  The  last  time  I  saw 
it  it  was  providing  a  space  for  the  exhibition  of  a 
printed  announcement  that  an  auction  would  take 
place  in  the  house. 

But  by  far  the  most  important  of  the  schemes  which 
of  late  have  been  indulged  in  for  adding  interest  to 
the  English  garden,  is  the  "  Japanese  style."  The 
"  Chinese  Taste,"  we  all  know,  played  a  very  impor- 
tant part  in  many  gardens  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
as  it  did  in  other  directions  in  the  social  life  of  Eng- 
land. The  flexible  imagination  of  Thomas  Chippen- 
dale found  it  as  easy  to  introduce  the  leading  Chinese 
notes  in  his  designs  as  the  leading  French  notes ;  and 
his  genius  was  so  well  controlled  that  his  pieces  "  in 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  111 

the  Chinese  Taste  "  did  not  look  at  all  incongruous 
in  an  English  mansion.  The  Chinese  wallpaper  was 
a  beautiful  thing  in  its  way,  nor  did  it  look  out  of  place 
in  a  drawing-room  with  the  beautifully  florid  mirrors 
of  Chippendale  design  on  the  walls,  and  the  noble 
lacquer  caskets  and  cabinets  that  stood  below  them. 
Under  the  same  impulse  Sir  Thomas  Chambers  was 
entrusted  with  the  erection  of  the  great  pagoda  in 
Kew  Gardens,  and  Chinese  junks  were  moored  along- 
side the  banks  to  enable  visitors  to  drink  tea  "  in  the 
Chinese  Taste."  The  Staffordshire  potters  repro- 
duced on  their  ware  some  excellent  patterns  that  had 
originated  with  the  Celestials,  and  in  an  attempt  to 
be  abreast  of  the  time,  Goldsmith  made  his  Citizen  of 
the  World  a  Chinese  gentleman. 

For  obvious  reasons,  however,  there  was  no  Jap- 
anese craze  at  that  time.  Little  was  known  of  the 
supreme  art  of  Japan,  and  nothing  of  the  Japanese 
Garden.  Now  we  seem  to  be  making  up  for  this 
deprivation  of  the  past,  and  the  Japanese  style  of 
gardening  is  being  represented  in  many  English 
grounds.  I  think  that  nothing  could  be  more  interest- 
ing, or,  in  its  own  way,  more  exquisite:  but  is  it  not 
incongruous  in  its  new-found  home? 

It  is  nothing  of  the  sort,  provided  that  it  is  not 
brought  into  close  proximity  to  the  English  garden. 
In  itself  it  is  charming,  graceful,  and  grateful  in  every 
way ;  but  unless  its  features  are  kept  apart  from  those 
of  the  English  garden,  it  becomes  incongruous  and 
unsatisfactory.  It  is,  however,  only  necessary  to  put 
it  in  its  place,  which  should  be  as  far  away  as  possible 


112  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

from  the  English  house  and  House  Garden,  and  it  will 
be  found  fully  to  justify  its  importation.  It  possesses 
all  the  elements  that  go  to  the  formation  of  a  real 
garden,  the  strongest  of  these  being,  in  my  opinion, 
a  clear  and  consistent  design;  unless  a  garden  has 
both  form  and  design  it  is  worth  no  consideration, 
except  from  the  very  humblest  standpoint. 

Its  peculiar  charm  seems  to  me  to  be  found  in  what 
the  nurseryman's  catalogue  calls  the  "  dwarf  habit." 
It  is  essentially  among  the  miniatures.  Though  it 
may  be  as  extensive  as  one  pleases  to  make  it,  yet  it 
gains  rather  than  loses  when  treated  as  its  trees  are 
by  the  skilful  hands  of  the  miniaturist.  Without 
suggesting  that  it  should  be  reduced  to  toy  dimensions, 
yet  I  am  sure  that  it  should  be  so  that  no  tall  human 
being  should  be  seen  in  it.  It  is  the  garden  of 
a  small  race.  A  big  Englishman  should  not  be 
allowed  into  it.  It  would  not  be  giving  it  fair 
play. 

Fancying  that  I  have  put  its  elements  into  a  nut- 
shell, carrying  my  minimising  to  a  minimum,  I  repeat 
the  last  sentence  to  Dorothy. 

'  You  would  not  exclude  Mr.  Friswell,"  said 
she. 

"  Atheist  Friswell  is  not  life-size :  he  may  go  without 
rebuke  into  the  most  miniature  Japanese  garden  in 
Bond  Street,"  I  reply  gratefully. 

"  And  how  about  Mrs.  Friswell? "  she  asks. 

"  She  is  three  sizes  too  big,  even  in  her  chapel 
shoes,"  I  replied. 

Mrs.  Friswell,  in  spite  of  her  upbringing — perhaps 


rur 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  113 

on  account  of  it — wears  the  heelless  shoes  of  Little 
Bethel. 

:<  Then  Mr.  Friswell  will  never  be  seen  in  a  Jap- 
anese garden,"  said  Dorothy. 

She  does  like  Mrs.  Friswell. 


CHAPTER  THE  TENTH 

BUT  there  is  in  my  mind  one  garden  in  which  I  should 
like  to  see  the  tallest  and  most  truculent  of  English- 
men. It  is  the  Tiergarten  at  Berlin.  I  recollect  very 
vividly  the  first  time  that  I  passed  through  the  Brand- 
enburger  Gate  to  visit  some  friends  who  occupied  a 
flat  in  the  block  of  buildings  known  as  "  In  den 
Zelten."  I  had  just  come  within  sight  of  the  sentry 
at  the  gate-house  when  I  saw  him  rush  to  the  door 
of  the  guard-room  and  in  a  few  seconds  the  whole 
guard  had  turned  out  with  a  trumpet  and  a  drum. 
I  was  surprised,  for  I  had  not  written  to  say  that  I 
was  coming,  and  I  was  quite  unused  to  such  courtesy 
either  in  Berlin  or  any  other  city  where  there  is  a 
German  population. 

Before  the  incident  went  further  I  became  aware 
of  the  fact  that  all  the  vehicles  leaving  "  Unter  den 
Linden  "  had  become  motionless,  and  that  the  officers 
who  were  in  some  of  them  were  standing  up  at  the 
salute.  The  only  carriage  in  motion  was  a  landau 
drawn  by  a  pair  of  gray  horses,  with  a  handsome  man 
in  a  plain  uniform  and  the  ordinary  helmet  of  an 
infantry  soldier  sitting  alone  with  his  face  to  the 
horses.  I  knew  him  in  a  moment,  though  I  had  never 
seen  him  before — the  Crown  Prince  Frederick,  the 

114 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  115 

husband  of  our  Princess  Royal — the  "  Fritz  "  of  the 
intimate  devotional  telegrams  to  "  Augusta  "  from  the 
battlefields  of  France  in  1870. 

That  Crown  Prince  was  the  very  opposite  to  his 
truculent  son  and  that  contemptible  blackguard,  his 
son's  son.  Genial,  considerate,  and  unassuming,  dis- 
liking all  display  and  theatrical  posing,  he  was  much 
more  of  an  English  gentleman  than  a  German  Prince. 
His  son  Wilhelm  had  even  then  begun  to  hate 
him — so  I  heard  from  a  high  personage  of  the  Court. 

I  am  certain  that  it  was  his  reading  of  the  campaign 
of  1870-1  that  set  this  precious  Wilhelm — this 
Emperor  of  the  penny  gaff — on  his  last  enterprise. 
If  one  hunts  up  the  old  newspapers  of  1870  one  will 
read  in  every  telegram  from  the  German  front  of 
the  King  of  Prussia  and  the  Crown  Prince  marching 
to  Victory,  in  the  campaign  started  by  a  forgery  and 
a  lie,  by  that  fine  type  of  German  trickery,  unscrupu- 
lousness,  brutality,  and  astuteness,  Bismarck.  Wil- 
helm could  not  endure  the  thought  of  the  glory  of  his 
house  being  centred  in  those  who  had  gone  before  him, 
and  he  chafed  at  the  years  that  were  passing  without 
history  repeating  itself.  He  could  with  difficulty  re- 
strain himself  from  his  attempt  to  dominate  the  world 
until  his  first-begotten  was  old  enough  to  dominate  the 
demi-monde  of  Paris — "  Wilhelm  to-day  successfully 
stormed  Le  Chemin  des  Dames,"  was  the  telegram 
that  he  sent  to  the  Empress,  in  imitation  of  those  sent 
by  his  grandfather  to  his  Augusta.  Le  Chemin  des 
Dames! — beyond  a  doubt  his  dream  was  to  give 
France  to  his  eldest,  England  to  his  second,  and 


116 

Russia  to  the  third  of  the  litter.  After  that,  as  he 
said  to  Mr.  Gerard,  he  would  turn  his  attention  to 
America. 

That  was  the  dream  of  this  Bonaparte  done  in 
German  silver,  and  now  his  house  is  left  unto  him 
desolate — unto  him  whose  criminality,  sustained  by 
the  criminal  conceit  of  his  subjects,  left  thousands  of 
houses  desolate  for  evermore. 

But  we  are  now  in  the  Garden  of  Peace,  whose 
sweet  savour  should  not  be  allowed  to  become  rank  by 
the  mention  of  the  name  of  the  instigator  of  the 
German  butcheries. 

There  is  little  under  my  eyes  in  this  garden  to  re- 
mind me  of  one  on  the  Rhine  where  I  spent  a  summer 
a  good  many  years  ago.  Its  situation  was  ideal.  The 
island  of  legends,  Nonnenworth,  was  all  that  could  be 
seen  from  one  of  the  garden-houses;  and  one  of  the 
windows  in  the  front  was  arranged  in  small  squares 
of  glass  stained,  but  retaining  their  transparency, 
in  various  colours — crimson,  pink,  dark  blue,  ultra- 
marine, and  two  degrees  yellow.  Through  these 
theatrical  mediums  we  were  exhorted  to  view  the 
romantic  island,  so  that  we  had  the  rare  chance  of 
seeing  Nonnenworth  bathed  in  blood,  or  in  flames  of 
fire.  It  was  undoubtedly  a  great  privilege,  but  I  only 
availed  myself  of  it  once ;  though  our  host,  who  must 
have  looked  through  those  glasses  thousands  of  times, 
was  always  to  be  found  gazing  through  the  flaming 
yellow  at  the  unhappy  isle. 

From  the  vineyard  nearer  the  house  we  had  the 
finest  view  of  the  ruins  of  the  Drachenf els,  and,  on  the 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  117 

other  side  of  the  Rhine,  of  Rolandseck.  Godesburg 
was  farther  away,  but  we  used  to  drive  through  the 
lovely  avenue  of  cherry-trees  and  take  the  ferry  to 
the  hotel  gardens  where  we  lunched. 

Another  of  the  features  of  the  great  garden  of  our 
villa  was  a  fountain  whose  chief  charm  was  found  in 
an  arrangement  by  which,  on  treading  on  a  certain 
slab  of  stone  at  the  invitation  of  our  host,  the  un- 
initiated were  met  by  a  deluging  squirt  of  water. 

This  was  the  lighter  side  of  hospitality;  but  it  was 
at  one  time  to  be  found  in  many  English  gardens, 
one  of  the  earliest  being  at  our  Henry's  Palace  of 
Nonsuch. 

In  another  well-built  hut  there  was  the  apparatus 
of  a  game  which  is  popular  aboard  ship  in  the  Tropics : 
I  believe  it  is  called  Bull;  it  is  certainly  an  adapta- 
tion of  the  real  bull.  There  is  a  framework  of 
apertures  with  a  number  painted  on  each,  the  object 
of  the  player  being  to  throw  a  metal  disc  resembling 
a  quoit  into  the  central  opening.  Another  hut  had  a 
pole  in  the  middle  and  cords  with  a  ring  at  the  end  of 
each  suspended  from  above,  and  the  trick  was  to  in- 
duce the  ring  to  catch  on  to  a  particular  hook  in  a  set 
arranged  round  the  pole.  These  were  the  games  of 
exercise;  but  the  intellectual  visitors  had  for  their 
diversion  an  immense  globe  of  silvered  glass  which 
stood  on  a  short  pillar  and  enabled  one  to  get  in  absurd 
perspective  a  reflection  of  the  various  parts  of  the 
garden  where  it  was  placed.  This  toy  is  very  popular 
in  some  parts  of  France,  and  I  have  heard  that  about 
sixty  years  ago  it  was  to  be  found  in  many  English 


118  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

gardens  also.    It  is  a  great  favourite  in  the  German 
lustgarten. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  features  of  a  private  garden 
which  may  commend  themselves  to  some  of  my 
friends;  but  the  least  innocuous  will  never  be  found 
within  my  castle  walls.  I  would  not  think  them 
worth  mentioning  but  for  the  fact  that  yesterday 
a  visitor  kept  rubbing  us  all  over  with  sandpaper,  so 
to  speak,  by  talking  enthusiastically  about  her  visits  to 
Germany,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  autumn  calm  in  our 
garden,  telling  us  how  beautifully  her  friend  Von 
Bosche  had  arranged  his  grounds.  She  had  the  impu- 
dence to  point  to  one  of  the  most  impregnable  of  my 
"  features,"  saying  with  a  smile, — 

"  The  Count  would  not  approve  of  that,  I'm 
afraid." 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  said  Dorothy  sweetly.  "  If  I 
thought  that  there  was  anything  here  of  which  he 
would  approve,  I  should  put  on  my  gardening  boots 
and  trample  it  as  much  out  of  existence  as  our  rela- 
tions are  with  those  contemptible  counts  and  all  their 
race." 

And  then,  having  found  the  range,  I  brought  my 
heavy  guns  into  action  and  "  the  case  began  to  spread." 

I  trust  that  I  made  myself  thoroughly  offensive, 
and  when  I  recall  some  of  the  things  I  said,  my 
conscience  acquits  me  of  any  shortcomings  in  this 
direction. 

'  You  were  very  wise,"  said  Dorothy;  "  but  I  think 
you  went  too  far  when  you  said,  '  Good-bye,  Miss 
Haldane.'  I  saw  her  wince  at  that." 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  119 

"  I  knew  that  I  would  never  have  a  chance  of  speak- 
ing to  her  again,"  I  replied. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  but — Haldane — Haldane !  If  you  had 
made  it  Snowden  or  MacDonald  it  would  not  have 
been  so  bad;  but  Haldane!" 

"  I  said  Haldane  because  I  meant  Haldane,  and 
because  Haldane  is  a  synonym  for  colossal  impudence 
— the  impudence  of  a  police-court  attorney  defending 
a  prostitute  with  whom  he  was  on  terms  of  disgust- 
ing intimacy.  What  a  trick  it  was  to  leave  the  War 
Office,  out  of  which  he  knew  he  would  be  turned, 
and  then  cajole  his  friend  Asquith  into  giving  him 
a  peerage  and  the  Seals,  so  that  he  might  have  his 
pension  of  five  thousand  pounds  a  year  for  the  rest 
of  his  natural  life!  If  that  is  to  be  condoned,  all  that 
I  can  say  is  that  we  must  revise  all  our  notions  of 
political  pettifogging.  I  forget  at  the  moment  how 
many  retired  Lord  Chancellors  there  are  who  are 
pocketing  their  pension,  but  have  done  nothing  to 
earn  it." 

'  What,  do  you  call  voting  through  thick  and  thin 
with  your  party  nothing?  " 

"  I  don't.  That  is  how,  what  we  call  a  sovereign 
to-day  is  worth  only  nine  shillings,  and  a  man  who 
got  thirty  shillings  a  week  as  a  gardener  only  gets 
three  pounds  now:  thirty  shillings  in  1913  was  more 
than  three  pounds  to-day.  And  in  England " 

"  Hush,  hush.  Remember,  *  My  country  right  or 
wrong.' ' 

"  I  do  remember.  That  is  why  I  rave.  When  *  my 
country,  right  or  wrong '  is  painted  out  and  '  my 


120  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

party,  right  or  wrong '  substituted,  isn't  it  time  one 
raved  ? " 

"  You  didn't  talk  in  that  strain  when  you  wrote  a 
leading  article  every  day  for  a  newspaper." 

"  I  admit  it ;  but — but — well,  things  hadn't  come 
to  a  head  in  those  old  days." 

"  You  mean  that  they  had  not  come  into  your  head, 
mon  vieuoc,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so." 

I  did  allow  her  to  say  so — she  had  said  so  before 
asking  my  leave,  which  on  the  whole  I  admit  is  a  very 
good  way  of  saying  things. 

To  be  really  frank,  I  confess  that  I  was  very  glad 
that  the  dialogue  ended  here.  I  fancied  the  possibility 
of  her  having  stored  away  in  that  wonderful  group 
of  pigeon  holes  which  she  calls  her  memory,  a  memo- 
randum endorsed  with  the  name  of  Campbell-Banner- 
man  or  a  dossier  labelled  "  Lansdowne."  For  myself 
I  recollect  very  well  that  a  vote  of  the  representatives 
of  the  People  had  declared  that  Campbell-Bannerman 
had  left  the  country  open  to  destruction  by  his  failure 
to  provide  an  adequate  supply  of  cordite.  In  the  days 
of  poor  Admiral  Byng  such  negligence  would  have 
been  quickly  followed  by  an  execution;  but  with  the 
politician  it  was  followed  by  a  visit  to  Buckingham 
Palace  and  a  decoration  as  a  hero.  When  it  was  plain 
that  Lord  Lansdowne  had  made,  and  was  still  mak- 
ing, a  muddle  of  the  South  African  War,  he  was  pro- 
moted to  a  more  important  post  in  the  Government — 
namely,  the  Foreign  Office.  With  such  precedents 
culled  from  the  past,  why  should  any  one  be  surprised 
to  find  the  instigator  of  the  Gallipoli  gamble,  whose 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  121 

responsibility  was  proved  by  a  Special  Commission  of 
Inquiry,  awarded  the  most  important  post  next  to 
that  of  the  Prime  Minister? 

Yes,  on  the  whole  I  was  satisfied  to  accept  my 
Dorothy's  smiling  rebuke  with  a  smile ;  and  the  sequel 
of  the  incident  showed  me  that  I  was  wise  in  this 
respect;  for  I  found  her  the  next  day  looking  with 
admiring  eyes  at  our  Temple. 

Our  Temple  was  my  masterpiece,  and  it  was  the 
"  feature  "  which  our  visitor  had,  without  meaning  it, 
commended  so  extravagantly  when  she  had  assured 
us  that  her  friend  Count  Von  Bosche  would  not  have 
approved  of  it. 

"  I  think,  my  child,  now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
that  your  single-sentence  retort  respecting  the  value 
of  the  Count's  possible  non-approval  was  more  effec- 
tive than  my  tirade  about  the  vulgarity  of  German 
taste  in  German  gardens,  especially  that  one  at  Hon- 
nef-on-Rhine,  where  I  was  jocularly  deluged  with 
Rhine  water.  You  know  how  to  hit  off  such  things. 
You  are  a  born  sniper." 

"  Sniping  is  a  woman's  idea  of  war,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  I  don't  like  to  associate  women  and  warfare," 
said  I  shaking  my  head. 

!<  That  is  because  of  your  gentle  nature,  dear,"  said 
she  with  all  the  smoothness  of  a  smoothing-iron  fresh 
from  a  seven-times  heated  furnace.  "But  isn't  it 
strange  that  in  most  languages  the  word  War  is  a 
noun  feminine?" 

"  They  were  always  hard  on  woman  in  those  days," 
said  I  vaguely.  "  But  they're  making  up  for  it  now." 


122  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

"  What  are  you  talking  about?  "  she  cried.  "  Why, 
they're  harder  than  ever  on  women  in  this  country. 
Haven't  they  just  insisted  on  enchaining  them  with 
the  franchise,  with  the  prospect  of  seats  in  the  House 
of  Commons?  Oh,  Woman — poor  Woman! — poor, 
poor  Woman — what  have  you  done  to  deserve  this?  " 


CHAPTER  THE  ELEVENTH 

THE  Temple  is  one  of  the  "  features  "  which  began  to 
grow  with  great  rapidity  in  connection  with  the  House 
Garden.  And  here  let  me  say  that,  in  my  opinion, 
one  of  the  most  fascinating  elements  of  the  House 
Garden  is  the  way  in  which  its  character  develops. 
To  watch  its  development  is  as  interesting  as  to  watch 
the  growth  of  a  dear  child,  only  it  is  never  wilful,  and 
the  child  is — sometimes.  There  is  no  wilfulness  in  the 
floral  part:  as  I  have  already  explained,  the  "dwarf 
habit "  of  the  stock  prevents  all  ramping  and  every 
form  of  rebellion :  but  it  is  different  with  the  "  fea- 
tures." I  have  found  that  every  year  brings  its  sug- 
gestions of  development  in  many  directions,  and 
surely  this  constitutes  the  main  attractiveness  of 
working  out  any  scheme  of  horticulture. 

I  have  found  that  one  never  comes  to  an  end  in 
this  respect;  and  I  am  sure  that  this  accounts  for 
the  great  popularity  of  the  House  Garden,  in  spite 
of  its  enemies  having  tried  to  abolish  it  by  calling  it 
Formal.  The  time  was  when  one  felt  it  necessary 
to  make  excuses  for  it — Mr.  Robinson,  one  of 
the  most  eminent  of  its  detractors,  was,  and  still 
is,  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to  say,  the  writer  to 
whom  we  all  apply  for  advice  in  an  emergency.  He 

123 


124  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

is  uEsculapius  living  on  the  happiest  terms  with 
Flora. 

But  when  we  who  are  her  devotees  wish  to  build  a 
Temple  for  her  worship,  we  don't  consult  ^Bsculapius: 
he  is  a  physician,  not  an  architect,  and  Mr.  Robinson 
has  been  trying  to  convince  us  for  over  twenty  years 
that  an  architect  is  not  the  person  to  consult,  for  he 
knows  nothing  about  the  matter.  ^Esculapius  is  on 
the  side  of  Nature,  we  are  told,  and  he  has  been  assur- 
ing us  that  the  architect  is  not ;  but  in  spite  of  all  its 
opponents,  the  garden  of  form  and  finish  is  the  garden 
of  to-day.  Every  one  who  wishes  to  have  a  garden 
worth  talking  about — a  garden  to  look  out  upon  from 
a  house  asks  for  a  garden  of  form  and  finish. 

I  am  constantly  feeling  that  I  am  protesting  too 
much  in  its  favour,  considering  that  it  needs  no  apolo- 
gist at  this  time  of  day,  when,  as  I  have  just  said,  opin- 
ion on  its  desirability  is  not  divided,  so  I  will  hasten 
to  relieve  myself  of  the  charge  of  accusation  by  apol- 
ogy. Only  let  me  say  that  the  beautiful  illustrations 
to  Mr.  Robinson's  volume  entitled  Garden  Design 
and  Architects'  Gardens — they  are  by  Alfred  Parsons 
— go  far,  in  my  opinion,  to  prove  exactly  the  opposite 
to  what  they  are  designed  to  prove.  We  have  pic- 
tures of  stately  houses  and  of  comparatively  humble 
houses,  in  which  we  are  shown  the  buildings  starting 
up  straight  out  of  the  landscape,  with  a  shaggy  tree 
or  group  of  trees  cutting  off,  at  a  distance  of  only 
a  few  yards  from  the  walls,  some  of  the  most  inter- 
esting architectural  features;  we  have  pictures  of 
mansions  with  a  woodland  behind  them  and  a  river 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  125 

flowing  in  front,  and  of  mansions  in  the  very  midst 
of  trees,  and  looking  at  every  one  of  them  we  are 
conscious  of  that  element  of  incongruity  which  takes 
away  from  every  sense  of  beauty.  In  fact,  looking 
at  the  woodcuts,  finely  executed  as  they  are,  we  are 
forced  to  limit  our  observation  to  the  architecture 
of  the  houses  only ;  for  there  is  nothing  else  to  observe. 
We  feel  as  if  we  were  asked  to  admire  an  unfinished 
work — as  if  the  owner  of  the  mansion  had  spent  all 
his  money  on  the  building  and  so  was  compelled  to 
break  off  suddenly  before  the  picture  that  he  hoped 
to  make  of  the  "  place  "  was  complete  or  approach- 
ing completeness. 

Mr.  Robinson's  strongest  objection  is  to  "  clip- 
ping." He  regards  with  abhorrence  what  he  calls 
after  Horace  Walpole,  "  vegetable  sculpture."  Well, 
last  year,  being  in  the  neighbourhood  of  one  of  the 
houses  which  he  illustrates  as  an  example  of  his 
"  natural "  style  of  gardening,  I  thought  I  should 
take  the  opportunity  of  verifying  his  quotations.  I 
visited  the  place,  but  when  I  arrived  at  what  I  was 
told  was  the  entrance,  I  felt  certain  that  I  had  been 
misdirected,  for  I  found  myself  looking  through  a 
wrought-iron  gate  at  an  avenue  bounded  on  both 
sides  with  some  of  the  most  magnificent  clipped  box 
hedges  I  had  ever  seen.  Within  I  was  overwhelmed 
with  the  enormous  masses  treated  in  the  same  way. 
It  was  not  hedges  they  were,  but  walls — massive  forti- 
fications, ten  feet  high  and  five  thick,  and  all  clipped! 
I  never  saw  such  examples  of  topiary  work.  To 
stand  among  these  bet es  noires  of  Mr.  Robinson  made 


126  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

one  feel  as  if  one  were  living  among  the  mastodons 
and  other  monstrosities  of  the  early  world :  the  small- 
est suggested  both  in  form  and  bulk  the  Jumbo  of 
our  youth — no  doubt  it  had  a  trunk  somewhere,  but 
it  was  completely  hiddeii.  The  lawn — at  the  bottom 
of  which,  by  the  way,  there  stood  the  most  imposing 
garden-house  I  had  ever  seen  outside  the  grounds  of 
Stowe — was  divided  geometrically  by  the  awful  bodies 
of  mastodons,  mammoths,  elephants,  and  hippo- 
potamuses, the  effect  being  hauntingly  Wilsonian, 
Wagnerian,  and  nightmarish,  so  that  I  was  glad  to 
hurry  away  to  where  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  some 
geometrical  flower  beds,  with  patterns  delightfully 
worked  in  shades  of  blue — Lord  Roberts  heliotrope, 
ageratum,  and  verbena. 

I  asked  the  head -gardener,  whom  the  war  had 
limited  to  two  assistants,  if  he  spent  much  time  over 
the  clipping,  and  he  told  me  that  it  took  two  trained 
men  doing  nothing  else  but  clipping  those  walls  for 
six  weeks  out  of  every  year! 

From  what  Mr.  Robinson  has  written  one  gathers 
that  he  regards  the  clipping  of  trees  as  equal  in  enor- 
mity to  the  clipping  of  coins — perhaps  even  more  so. 
If  that  is  the  case,  it  is  lucky  for  those  topiarists  that 
he  is  not  in  the  same  position  as  Sir  Charles  Mathews. 

And  the  foregoing  is  a  faithful  description  of  the 
"  landscape  "  around  one  of  the  houses  illustrated  in 
his  book  as  an  example  of  the  "  naturalistic  "  style. 

But  perhaps  Mr.  Robinson's  ideas  have  become 
modified,  as  those  of  the  owner  of  the  house  must 
have  done  during  the  twenty-five  years  that  have 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  127 

elapsed  since  the  publication  of  his  book,  subjecting 
Mr.  Blomfield  (as  he  was  then)  and  Mr.  Inigo  Triggs 
to  a  criticism  whose  severity  resembles  that  of  the 
Quarterly  Review  of  a  hundred  years  ago,  or  the 
Saturday  of  our  boyhood. 

To  return  to  my  Temple,  within  whose  portals  I 
swear  that  I  have  said  my  last  word  respecting  the  old 
battle  of  the  styles,  I  look  on  its  erection  as  the  first 
progeny  of  the  matrimonial  union  of  the  house  with 
its  garden.  I  have  mentioned  the  mound  encircled 
with  flowering  shrubs  at  the  termination  of  the  lawn. 
I  am  unable  to  say  what  part  was  played  by  this 
raised  ground  in  the  economy  of  the  Norman  Castle, 
but  before  I  had  been  looking  at  it  for  very  long 
I  perceived  that  it  was  clearly  meant  to  be  the  site 
of  some  building  that  would  be  in  keeping  with  the 
design  of  the  garden  below  it — some  building  in 
which  one  could  sit  and  obtain  the  full  enjoyment 
of  the  floral  beds  which  were  now  crying  out  with 
melodious  insistence  for  admiration. 

The  difficulty  was  to  know  in  what  form  the  build- 
ing should  be  cast.  I  reckoned  that  I  had  a  free 
choice  in  this  matter.  The  boundary  wall  of  the 
Castle  is,  of  course,  free  from  all  architectural  tram- 
mels. I  could  afford  to  ignore  it.  If  the  Keep  or 
the  Barbican  had  been  within  sight,  my  freedom  in 
this  respect  would  have  been  curtailed  to  the  nar- 
rowest limits:  I  should  have  been  compelled  to  make 
the  Norman  or  the  Decorated  the  style,  for  anything 
else  would  have  seemed  incongruous  in  close  proxim- 
ity to  a  recognised  type;  but  under  the  existing  con- 


128  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

ditions  I  saw  that  the  attempt  to  carry  out  in  this 
place  the  Norman  tradition  would  result  in  something 
that  would  seem  as  great  a  mockery  as  the  sham  castle 
near  Bath. 

But  I  perceived  that  if  I  could  not  carry  out  the 
Norman  tradition  I  might  adopt  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury tradition  respecting  a  garden  building,  and  erect 
one  of  the  classic  temples  that  found  favour  with  the 
great  garden  makers  of  that  period — something 
frankly  artificial,  but  eminently  suggestive  of  the 
Italian  taste  which  the  designers  had  acquired  in 
Italy. 

I  have  wondered  if  the  erection  of  these  classical 
buildings  in  English  gardens  did  not  seem  very  incon- 
gruous and  artificial  when  they  were  first  brought 
before  the  eyes  of  the  patron ;  and  the  conclusion  that 
I  have  come  to  is  that  they  seemed  as  suitable  to  an 
English  home  as  did  the  pure  Greek  facade  of  the 
mansion  itself,  the  fact  being  that  there  is  no  Eng- 
lish style  of  architecture.  Italy  gave  us  the  hand- 
somest style  for  our  homes,  and  when  people  were 
everywhere  met  with  classical  fa9ades — when  the 
Corinthian  pillar  with,  perhaps,  its  modified  Roman 
entablature,  was  to  be  seen  in  every  direction,  the 
classical  garden  temple  was  accepted  as  in  perfect 
harmony  with  its  surroundings.  So  the  regular 
couplets  of  Dryden,  Pope,  and  a  score  of  lesser  versi- 
fiers were  acclaimed  as  the  most  natural  and  reason- 
able form  for  the  expression  of  their  opinions.  Thus 
I  hold  that,  however  unenterprising  the  garden  de- 
signers were  in  being  content  to  copy  Continental 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  129 

models  instead  of  inventing  something  as  original  as 
Keats  in  the  matter  of  form,  the  modern  garden  de- 
signer has  only  to  copy  in  order  to  produce — well,  a 
copy  of  the  formality  of  their  time.  But  if  people 
nowadays  do  not  wish  their  gardens  to  reflect  the 
tastes  of  their  ancestors  for  the  classical  tradition,  they 
will  be  very  foolish  if  they  do  not  adopt  something 
better — when  they  find  it. 

Of  course  I  am  now  still  referring  to  the  garden 
out  of  which  the  house  should  spring.  The  moment 
that  you  get  free  from  the  compelling  influence  of 
the  house,  you  may  go  as  you  please ;  and  to  my  mind 
you  will  be  as  foolish  if  you  do  not  do  something  quite 
different  from  the  House  Garden  as  you  would  be  if 
you  were  to  do  anything  different  within  sight  of  the 
overpowering  House — almost  as  foolish  as  the  people 
who  made  a  beautiful  fountain  garden  and  then  flung 
it  at  the  head  of  that  natural  piece  of  water,  the 
Serpentine. 

My  temple  was  to  be  in  full  view  of  the  house,  and 
I  wished  to  maintain  the  tradition  of  a  certain  period, 
so  I  drew  out  my  plans  accordingly.  I  had  space 
only  for  something  about  ten  feet  square,  and  I  found 
out  what  the  simplest  form  of  such  a  building  would 
cost.  It  could  be  done  in  stone  for  some  hundreds 
of  pounds,  in  deal  for  less  than  a  fourth  of  that  sum. 

Both  estimates  were  from  well-known  people  with 
all  the  facilities  for  turning  out  good  work  at  the  low- 
est figure  of  profit;  but  both  estimates  made  me 
heavy-hearted.  I  tried  to  make  up  my  mind  not  to 
spend  the  rest  of  my  life  in  the  state  of  the  Children 


130  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

of  Israel  when  their  Temple  was  swept  away;  but 
within  six  months  I  had  my  vision  restored,  and  un- 
like the  old  people  who  wept  because  the  restoration 
was  far  behind  the  original  in  glory,  I  rejoiced;  for, 
finding  that  I  could  not  afford  to  have  the  structure 
in  deal,  I  had  it  built  of  marble,  and  the  cost  worked 
out  most  satisfactorily.  In  marble  it  cost  me  about  a 
fourth  of  the  estimate  in  deal ! 

I  did  it  on  the  system  adopted  by  the  makers  of 
the  Basilica  of  St.  Mark  at  Venice.  Those  economical 
people  built  their  walls  of  brick  and  laid  their  marbles 
upon  that.  My  collection  of  marbles  was  distinctly 
inferior  to  theirs,  but  I  flatter  myself  that  it  was  come 
by  more  honestly.  The  only  piece  of  which  I  felt 
doubtful,  not  as  regards  beauty,  but  respecting  the 
honourable  nature  of  its  original  acquiring,  was  a  fine 
slab,  with  many  inlays.  It  was  given  to  Augustus  J. 
C.  Hare  by  the  Commander  of  one  of  the  British 
transports  that  returned  from  the  Black  Sea  and  the 
Crimea  in  1855,  and  it  was  originally  in  a  church  near 
Balaclava.  In  the  catalogue  of  the  sale  of  Mr.  Hare's 
effects  at  Hurstmonceaux,  the  name  of  the  British  of- 
ficer was  given  and  the  name  of  his  ship  and  the  name 
of  the  church,  but  the  rest  is  silence.  I  cannot  believe 
that  that  British  officer  would  have  been  guilty  of 
sacrilege ;  but  I  do  not  know  how  many  hands  a  thing 
like  this  should  pass  through  in  order  to  lose  the  stain 
of  sacrilege,  so  I  don't  worry  over  the  question  of  the 
morality  of  the  transaction,  any  more  than  the  devout 
worshippers  do  beneath  the  mosaics  of  St.  Mark — 
that  greatest  depository  of  stolen  goods  in  the  world. 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  131 

All  the  rest  of  my  coloured  marbles  that  I  applied 
to  the  brickwork  of  my  little  structure  came  mostly 
from  old  mantelpieces  and  restaurant  tables,  but  I 
was  lucky  enough  to  alight  upon  quite  a  large  number 
of  white  Sicilian  tiles,  more  than  an  inch  thick,  which 
were  invaluable  to  me,  and  a  friendly  stonemason 
gave  me  several  yards  of  statuary  moulding:  it  must 
have  cost  originally  about  what  I  paid  for  my  entire 
building. 

It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  watch  the  fabric 
arise,  which  it  did  like  the  towers  of  Ilium,  to  music 
— the  music  of  the  thrushes  and  blackbirds  and  robins 
of  our  English  landscape  in  the  early  summer  when 
I  began  my  operations — they  lasted  just  on  a  fort- 
night— and  the  splendid  colour-chorus  of  the  borders. 

But  what  is  a  Temple  on  a  hill  without  steps?  and 
what  are  steps  without  piers,  and  what  are  piers  with- 
out vases? 

All  came  in  due  time.  I  found  an  excellent  quarry 
not  too  far  away,  and  from  it  I  got  several  tons  of 
stone  that  was  easily  shaped  and  squared,  and  there 
is  very  little  art  needed  to  deal  efficiently  with  such 
monoliths  as  I  had  laid  on  the  slope  of  the  mound — 
the  work  occupied  a  man  and  his  boy  just  three  days. 
The  source  of  the  piers  is  my  secret;  but  there  they 
are  with  their  stone  vases  to-day,  and  now  from  the 
marble  seat  of  the  temple,  thickly  overspread  with 
cushions,  one  can  overlook  the  parterres  between  the 
mound  and  the  house,  and  feel  no  need  for  the  sunk 
garden  which  is  the  ambition  of  such  as  must  be  on 
the  crest  of  the  latest  wave  of  fashion. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWELFTH 

ATHEIST  Friswell  has  been  wondering  where  he  saw 
a  mount  like  mine  crowned  with  just  such  a  structure, 
and  he  has  at  last  shepherded  his  wandering  memory 
to  the  place.  I  ventured  to  suggest  the  possibilities 
of  the  island  Scios,  and  Jack  Hey  wood,  the  painter, 
who,  though  our  neighbour,  still  remains  our  friend, 
makes  some  noncompromising  remark  about  Milos 
"  where  the  statues  come  from." 

"  I  think  you'll  find  the  place  in  a  picture-book 
called  Beauty  Spots  in  Greece,33  remarked  Mrs.  Fris- 
well. Dorothy  is  under  the  impression  that  Friswell's 
researches  in  the  classical  lore  of  one  Lempriere  is 
accountable  for  his  notion  that  there  is,  or  was,  at  one 
time  in  the  world  a  Temple  with  some  resemblance 
to  the  one  in  which  we  were  sitting  when  he  began  to 
wonder. 

"  Very  likely,"  said  he,  with  a  brutal  laugh.  "  The 
temples  on  the  hills  were  sometimes  dedicated  to  the 
sun — Helios,  you  know." 

Of  course  we  all  knew,  or  pretended  that  we  knew. 

"  And  what  did  your  artful  Christians  do  when 
they  came  upon  such  a  fane? "  he  inquired. 

"  Pulled  it  down,  I  suppose;  the  early  artful  Chris- 
tians had  no  more  sense  of  architectural  or  antiquarian 

132 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  133 

beauty  than  the  modern  exponents  of  the  cult,"  said 
Heywood. 

"  They  were  too  artful  for  that,  those  early  Chris- 
tian propagandists,"  said  Friswell.  "  No,  they  turned 
to  the  noble  Greek  worshippers  whom  they  were 
anxious  to  convert,  and  cried,  dropping  their  aspirates 
after  the  manner  of  the  moderns,  "  dedicated  to  Elias, 
is  it?  Quite  so — Saint  Elias — he  is  one  of  our  saints." 
That  is  how  it  comes  that  so  many  churches  on  hills 
in  the  Near  East  have  for  their  patron  Saint  Elias. 
Who  was  he,  I  should  like  to  know." 

"  I  would  do  my  best  to  withhold  the  knowledge 
from  you,"  said  Dorothy.  "  But  was  there  ever  really 
such  a  saint?  There  was  a  prophet,  of  course,  but 
that's  not  just  the  same." 

"I  should  think  not,"  said  Friswell.  "The  old 
prophets  were  the  grandest  characters  of  which  there 
is  a  record — your  saints  are  white  trash  alongside 
them — half-breeds.  They  only  came  into  existence 
because  of  the  craving  of  humanity  for  pluralities  of 
worship.  The  Church  has  found  in  her  saints  the 
equivalents  to  the  whole  Roman  theology." 

"  Mythology,"  said  I  correctively. 

'  There's  no  difference  between  the  words,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  dear,  there  is,"  said  his  wife. 
"  There  is  the  same  difference  between  theology  and 
mythology  as  there  is  between  convert  and  per- 
vert." 

"  Exactly  the  same  difference,"  he  cried. 
"  Exactly,  but  no  greater.  Christian  hagiology — 


134  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

what  a  horrid  word! — is  on  all-fours  with  Roman 
mythology.  The  women  who  used  to  lay  flowers  in 
the  Temple  of  Diana  bring  their  lilies  into  the  chapel 
of  the  Madonna.  There  are  chapels  for  all  the  saints, 
for  they  have  endowed  their  saints  with  the  powers 
attributed  to  their  numerous  deities  by  the  Greeks 
and  the  Romans.  There  are  enough  saints  to  go 
round — to  meet  all  the  requirements  of  the  most 
freakish  and  exacting  of  district  visitors.  But  the 
Jewish  prophets  were  very  different  from  the  mysti- 
cal and  mythical  saints.  They  lived,  and  you  feel 
when  you  get  in  touch  with  them  that  you  are  on  a 
higher  plane  altogether." 

"  Have  you  found  out  where  you  saw  that  Temple 
on  the  mound  over  there,  and  if  you  have,  let  us  know 
the  name  of  the  god  or  the  goddess  or  saint  or  saintess 
that  it  was  dedicated  to,  and  I'll  try  to  pick  up  a 
Britannia  metal  figure  cheap  to  put  in  the  grove 
alongside  the  Greek  vase,"  said  I. 

He  seemed  in  labour  of  thought:  no  one  spoke  for 
fear  of  interrupting  the  course  of  nature. 

"  Let  me  think,"  he  muttered.  "  I  don't  see  why 
the  mischief  I  should  associate  a  Greek  Temple  with 
Oxford  Street,  but  I  do — that  particular  Temple  of 
yours." 

"  If  you  were  a  really  religious  business  man  you 
might  be  led  to  think  of  the  City  Temple,  only  it 
doesn't  belong  to  the  Greek  Church,"  remarked 
Heywood. 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  said  the  Atheist's  wife;  "  think 
of  Truslove  and  Hanson,  the  booksellers.  Did  Arthur 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  135 

Rackham  ever  put  a  Temple  into  one  of  his  picture- 
books?" 

"  After  all,  you  may  have  gone  on  to  Holborn — 
Were  you  in  Batsford's? "  suggested  Dorothy. 

"  Don't  bother  about  him,"  said  I.  "  What  does  it 
matter  if  he  did  once  see  something  like  our  Temple; 
he'll  never  see  anything  like  it  again,  unless " 

"  It  may  have  been  Buszards' — a  masterpiece  of 
Buszards, — pure  confectioners'  Greek  architecture — 
icing  veined  to  look  like  marble,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  I  have  it — I  knew  I  could  worry  it  out  if  you  gave 
me  time,"  cried  Friswell. 

"  Which  we  did,"  said  I.  "  Well,  whisper  it  gently 
in  our  ears." 

"  It  was  in  a  scene  in  a  play  at  the  Princess's 
Theatre,"  he  cried  triumphantly.  "  Yes,  I  recollect 
it  distinctly — something  just  like  your  masterpiece, 
only  more  slavishly  Greek — the  scene  was  laid  in 
Rome,  so  they  would  be  sure  to  have  it  correct." 

"  What  play  was  it?  "  Dorothy  asked. 

"  Oh,  now  you're  asking  too  much,"  he  replied. 
"  Who  could  remember  the  name  of  a  play  after 
thirty  or  forty  years  ?  All  that  I  remember  is  that  it 
was  a  thoroughly  bad  play  with  a  Temple  like  yours 
in  it.  It  was  the  fading  of  the  light  that  brought 
it  within  the  tentacles  of  my  memory." 

"So  like  a  man — to  blame  the  dusk,"  said  his 
wife. 

"  The  twilight  is  the  time  for  a  garden — the  sum- 
mer twilight,  like  this,"  said  Mr.  Heywood. 

"  The   moonless  midnight  is  the  time  for   some 


136  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

gardens,"  said  Dorothy,  who  is  fastidious  in  many 
matters,  though  she  did  marry  me. 

"The  time  for  a  garden  was  decided  a  long  time 
ago,"  said  I—  "  as  long  ago  as  the  third  chapter  of 
Genesis  and  the  eighth  verse :  '  They  heard  the  voice 
of  the  Lord  God  walking  in  the  Garden  in  the  cool 
of  the  day. '  " 

"  You  say  that  with  a  last- word  air — as  much  as 
to  say  '  what's  good  enough  for  God  is  good  enough 
for  me,'  "  laughed  Friswell. 

"  I  think  that  if  ever  a  mortal  heard  the  voice  of 
God  it  would  be  in  a  garden  at  the  cool  of  the  day," 
said  Mrs.  Friswell  gently. 

"  There  are  some  people  who  would  fail  to  hear  it 
at  any  time,"  said  I,  pointedly  referring  to  Friswell. 
He  gave  a  laugh.  "  What  are  you  guffawing  at?  "  I 
cried  with  some  asperity  I  trust. 

"  Not  at  your  Congregational  platitudes,"  he  re- 
plied. "  I  was  led  to  smile  when  I  remembered  how 
the  colloquial  Bible  which  was  compiled  by  a  Scots- 
man, treated  that  beautiful  passage.  He  paraphrased 
it,  '  The  Lord  went  oot  in  the  gloamin'  to  hae  a  crack 
wi'  Adam  ower  the  garden  gate.' ' 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  was  thought  irreverent,"  said 
Dorothy.  "  He  wasn't  really,  you  know." 

;<  To  take  a  step  or  two  in  the  other  direction,"  said 
Mrs.  Friswell;  "  I  wonder  if  Milton  had  in  his  mind 
any  of  the  Italian  gardens  he  must  have  visited  on 
his  travels  when  he  described  the  Garden  of  Eden." 

;c  There's  not  much  of  an  Italian  garden  in  Milton's 
Eden,"  said  Dorothy,  who  is  something  of  an  author- 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  137 

ity  on  these  points.  "  But  it  is  certainly  an  Italian 
twilight  that  he  describes  in  one  place.  Poor  Milton! 
he  must  have  been  living  for  many  years  in  a  per- 
petual twilight  before  it  darkened  into  his  perpetual 
night." 

"  You  notice  the  influence  of  the  hour,"  said  Hey- 
wood.  "  We  have  fallen  into  a  twilight-shaded  vale 
of  converse.  This  is  the  hour  when  people  talk  in 
whispers  in  gardens  like  these." 

"  I  dare  say  we  have  all  done  so  in  our  time,"  re- 
marked some  one  with  a  sentimental  sigh  that  she 
tried  in  vain  to  smother. 

"  Ah,  God  knew  what  He  was  about  when  He  put  a 
man  and  a  woman  into  a  garden  alone,  and  gave  them 
an  admonition,"  said  Friswell.  "  By  the  way,  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  bits  of  testimony  to  the  scien- 
tific accuracy  of  the  Book  of  Genesis,  seems  to  me  to 
be  the  discovery,  after  many  years  of  conjecture  and 
vague  theorising,  that  man  and  woman  were  originally 
one,  so  that  the  story  of  the  formation  of  Eve  by 
separating  from  Adam  a  portion  of  his  body  is  scien- 
tifically true.  I  don't  suppose  that  any  of  you  good 
orthodox  folk  will  take  that  in;  but  it  is  a  fact  all 
the  same." 

"  I  will  believe  anything  except  a  scientific  fact," 
said  Dorothy. 

"  And  I  will  believe  nothing  else,"  said  Friswell. 
;'  The  history  of  mankind  begins  with  the  creation  of 
Eve — the  separation  of  the  two-sexed  animal  into  two 
— meant  a  new  world,  a  world  worth  writing  about — 
a  world  of  love." 


138  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

"  Listen  to  him — there's  the  effect  of  twilight  in  a 
Garden  of  Peace  for  you,"  said  I.  "  Science  and  the 
Book  of  Genesis,  hitherto  at  enmity,  are  at  last  recon- 
ciled by  Atheist  Friswell.  What  a  triumph!  What 
a  pity  that  Milton,  who  made  his  Archangel  visit 
Adam  and  his  bride  and  give  them  a  scientific  lecture, 
did  not  live  to  learn  all  this !  " 

"  He  would  have  given  us  a  Nonconformist  account 
of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Friswell.  "  I  wonder  how  much  his 
Archangel  would  have  known  if  Milton  had  not  first 
visited  Charles  Deodati." 

There  was  much  more  to  be  said  in  the  twilight  on 
the  subject  of  the  world  of  love — a  world  which  seems 
the  beginning  of  a  new  world  to  those  who  love ;  and 
that  was  possibly  why  silence  fell  upon  us  and  was 
only  broken  by  the  calling  of  a  thrush  from  among 
the  rhododendrons  and  the  tapping  of  the  rim  of 
Heywood's  empty  pipe-bowl  on  the  heel  of  his  shoe. 
There  was  so  much  to  be  said,  if  we  were  the  people 
to  say  it,  on  the  subject  of  the  new  Earth  which  your 
lover  knows  to  be  the  old  Heaven,  that,  being  aware 
of  the  inadequacy  of  human  speech,  we  were  silent 
for  a  long  space. 

And  when  we  began  to  talk  again  it  was  only  to 
hark  back  from  Nature  to  the  theatre,  and,  a  further 
decadence  still — the  Gardens  of  the  Stage. 

The  most  effective  garden  scene  in  my  recollection 
is  that  in  which  Irving  and  Ellen  Terry  acted  when 
playing  Wills'  exquisite  adaptation  of  King  Rene's 
Daughter,  which  he  called  lolanthe.  I  think  it  was 
Harker  who  painted  it.  The  garden  was  outside  a 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  139 

mediaeval  castle,  and  the  way  its  position  on  the  sum- 
mit of  a  hill  was  suggested  was  an  admirable  bit  of 
stagecraft.  Among  the  serried  lines  of  pines  there 
was  at  first  seen  the  faint  pink  of  a  sunset,  and  this 
gradually  became  a  glowing  crimson  which  faded 
away  into  the  rich  blue  of  an  Italian  twilight.  But 
there  was  enough  light  to  glint  here  and  there  upon 
the  armour  of  the  men-at-arms  who  moved  about 
among  the  trees. 

The  parterre  in  the  foreground  was  full  of  red 
roses,  and  I  remember  that  Mr.  Ruskin,  after  seeing 
the  piece  and  commenting  upon  the  mise- en-scene, 
said  that  in  such  a  light  as  was  on  it,  the  roses  of  the 
garden  would  have  seemed  black! 

This  one-act  play  was  brought  on  by  Irving  during 
the  latter  months  of  the  great  run  of  The  Merchant  of 
Venice.  It  showed  in  how  true  a  spirit  of  loyalty  to 
Shakespeare  the  last  act,  which,  in  nearly  all  repre- 
sentations of  the  play,  is  omitted,  on  the  assumption 
that  with  the  disappearance  of  Shylock  there  is  no 
further  element  of  interest  in  the  piece,  was  retained 
by  the  great  manager.  It  was  retained  only  for  the 
first  few  months,  and  it  was  delightfully  played.  The 
moonlit  garden  in  which  the  incomparable  lines  of  the 
poet  were  spoken  was  of  the  true  Italian  type,  though 
there  is  nothing  in  the  text  of  what  is  called  "  local 
colour." 

Juliet's  garden  on  the  same  stage  was  not  so  defi- 
nitely Italian  as  it  might  have  been.  But  I  happen 
to  know  who  were  Irving's  advisers.  Among  them 
were  two  of  the  most  popular  of  English  painters, 


140  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

and  if  they  had  had  their  own  way  Romeo  would  have 
been  allowed  no  chance :  he  would  have  been  hidden  by 
the  clumps  of  yew,  and  juniper,  and  oleander,  and 
ilex,  and  pomegranate.  A  good  many  people  who 
were  present  during  the  run  of  Romeo  and  Juliet 
were  very  much  of  the  opinion  that  if  this  had  taken 
place  it  would  have  been  to  the  advantage  of  all  con- 
cerned. Mr.  Irving,  as  he  was  then,  was  not  the  ideal 
Romeo  of  the  English  playgoer.  But  neither  was  the 
original  Romeo,  who  was,  like  the  original  Paolo,  a 
man  of  something  over  forty. 

I  have  never  seen  it  pointed  out  that  a  Romeo  of 
forty  would  be  quite  consistent  with  the  Capulet 
tradition,  for  Juliet's  father  in  the  play  was  quite  an 
elderly  man,  whereas  the  mother  was  a  young  woman 
of  twenty-eight.  As  for  Juliet's  age,  it  is  usually 
made  the  subject  of  a  note  of  comment  to  the  effect 
that  in  the  warm  south  a  girl  matures  so  rapidly  that 
she  is  marriageable  at  Juliet's  age  of  thirteen,  whereas 
in  the  colder  clime  of  England  it  would  be  ridiculous 
to  talk  of  one  marrying  at  such  an  age. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  in  these  less  spacious 
days  the  idea  of  a  bride  of  thirteen  would  not  com- 
mend itself  to  parents  or  guardians,  but  in  the  six- 
teenth century,  twelve  or  thirteen  was  regarded  as 
the  right  age  for  the  marriage  of  a  girl.  If  she 
reached  her  sixteenth  birthday  remaining  single,  she 
was  ready  to  join  in  the  wail  of  Jephtha's  Daughter. 
In  a  recently  published  letter  written  by  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, who,  by  the  way,  although  fully  qualified  to  take 
part  in  that  chorale,  seemed  to  find  a  series  of  diplo- 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  141 

matic  flirtations  to  be  more  satisfying  than  matrimony, 
she  submitted  the  names  of  three  heiresses  as  ripe  for 
marriage,  and  none  of  them  had  passed  the  age  of 
thirteen.  The  Reverend  John  Knox  made  his  third 
matrimonial  venture  with  a  child  of  fifteen.  Indeed, 
one  has  only  to  search  the  records  of  any  family  of 
the  sixteenth  or  seventeenth  century  to  be  made  aware 
of  the  fact  that  Shakespeare's  Juliet  was  not  an  ex- 
ceptionally youthful  bride.  In  Tenbury  Church  there 
is  a  memorial  of  "  loyse,  d.  of  Thos.  Actone  of 
Sutton,  Esquire."  She  was  the  wife  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy,  whom  she  married  at  the  age  of  twelve.  If 
any  actor,  however,  were  to  appear  as  a  forty-two 
year  Romeo  and  with  a  Juliet  of  thirteen,  and  a  lady- 
mother  of  twenty-eight,  he  would  be  optimistic  indeed 
if  he  should  hope  for  a  long  run  for  his  venture. 

Of  course  with  the  boy  Juliets  of  the  Globe  Theatre, 
the  younger  they  were  the  better  chance  they  would 
have  of  carrying  conviction  with  them.  A  Juliet  with 
a  valanced  cheek  would  not  be  nice,  even  though  she 
were  "  nearer  heaven  by  the  attitude  of  a  chopine  " 
than  one  whose  face  was  smooth. 

I  think  that  Irving  looked  his  full  age  when  he  took 
it  upon  him  to  play  Romeo;  but  to  my  mind  he  made 
a  more  romantic  figure  than  most  Romeos  whom  I 
have  seen.  But  every  one  who  joined  in  criticising 
the  representation  seemed  unable  to  see  more  of  him 
than  his  legs,  and  these  were  certainly  fantastic.  I 
maintained  that  such  people  began  at  the  wrong  end 
of  the  actor:  they  should  have  begun  at  the  head. 
And  this  was  the  hope  of  Irving  himself.  He  had  the 


142  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

intellect,  and   I   thought  his   legs   extremely   intel- 
lectual. 

I  wonder  he  did  not  do  some  padding  to  bring  his 
calves  into  the  market,  and  make — as  he  would  have 
done — a  handsome  profit  out  of  the  play.  In  the  old 
days  of  the  Bateman  Management  of  the  Lyceum, 
he  was  never  permitted  to  ignore  the  possibilities  of 
making  up  for  deficiencies  of  Nature.  In  the  estima- 
tion of  the  majority  of  theatre-goers,  the  intellect  of 
an  actor  will  never  make  up  for  any  neglect  of  the 
adventitious  aid  of  "  make-up."  When  Eugene  Aram 
was  to  be  produced,  it  was  thought  advisable  to  do 
some  padding  to  make  Irving  presentable.  There 
was  a  clever  expert  at  this  form  of  expansion  con- 
nected with  the  theatre ;  he  was  an  Italian  and,  speak- 
ing no  English,  he  was  forced  into  an  experiment  in 
explanation  in  his  own  language.  He  wished  to  en- 
force the  need  for  a  solid  shape  to  fit  the  body,  rather 
than  a  patchwork  of  padding.  In  doing  so  he  had  to 
made  constant  use  of  the  word  corpo,  and  as  none  of 
his  hearers  understood  Italian,  they  thought  that  he 
was  giving  a  name  to  the  contrivance  he  had  in  his 
mind;  so  when  the  thing  passed  out  of  the  mental 
stage  into  the  actor's  dressing-room,  it  was  alluded  to 
as  the  corpo.  The  name  seemed  a  happy  one  and  it 
had  a  certain  philological  justification;  for  several 
people,  including  the  dresser,  thought  that  corpo  was 
a  contraction  for  corporation,  and  in  the  slang  of  the 
day,  that  meant  an  expansion  of  the  chest  a  little  lower 
down. 

Mrs.  Bateman,  with  whom  and  with  whose  family 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  143 

I  was  intimate,  told  me  this  long  after  the  event,  and, 
curiously  enough,  it  arose  out  of  a  conversation  going 
on  among  some  visitors  to  the  house  in  Ensleigh 
Street  where  Mrs.  Bateman  and  her  daughters  were 
living.  I  said  I  thought  the  most  expressive  line  ever 
written  was  that  in  the  Inferno  which  ended  the  ex- 
quisite Francesca  episode : — 

"  E  caddi  come  un  corpo  morto  cade." 

Mrs.  Bateman  and  her  daughter  Kate  (Mrs. 
Crowe)  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled.  I  thought 
that  they  had  probably  had  the  line  quoted  to  them 
ad  nauseam,  and  I  said  so. 

"  That  is  not  what  we  were  smiling  at,"  said  Mrs. 
Bateman.  "  It  was  at  the  recollection  of  the  word 
corpo" 

And  then  she  told  me  the  foregoing. 

Only  a  short  time  afterwards  in  the  same  house 
she  gave  me  a  bit  of  information  of  a  much  more 
interesting  sort. 

I  had  been  at  the  first  performance  of  Wills'  play 
Ninon  at  the  Adelphi  theatre,  and  was  praising  the 
acting  of  Miss  Wallis  and  Mr.  Fernandez.  When  I 
was  describing  one  scene,  Mrs.  Bateman  said, — 

"  I  recollect  that  scene  very  well ;  Mr.  Wills  read 
that  play  to  us  when  he  was  writing  Charles  I.;  but 
there  was  no  part  in  it  strong  enough  for  Mr.  Irving. 
He  heard  it  read,  however,  and  was  greatly  taken 
with  some  lines  in  it — so  greatly  in  fact  that  Mr.  Wills 
found  a  place  for  them  in  Charles  I.  They  are  the 


144  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

lines  of  the  King's  upbraiding  of  the  Scotch  traitor, 
beginning,  '  I  saw  a  picture  of  a  Judas  once.'  Some 
people  thought  them  among  the  finest  in  the  play." 

I  said  that  I  was  certainly  among  them. 

That  was  how  they  made  up  a  play  which  is  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  most  finished  dramas  in  verse  of  the 
latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

It  was  Irving  himself  who  told  me  something  more 
about  the  same  play.  The  subject  had  been  suggested 
to  Wills  and  he  set  about  it  with  great  fervour.  He 
brought  the  first  act  to  the  Lyceum  conclave.  It 
opened  in  the  banqueting  hall  of  some  castle,  with  a 
score  of  the  usual  cavaliers  having  the  customary 
carouse,  throwing  about  wooden  goblets,  and  tossing 
off  bumpers  between  the  verses  of  some  stirring  songs 
of  the  type  of  "  Oh,  fill  me  a  beaker  as  deep  as  you 
please,"  leading  up  to  the  unavoidable  brawl  and  the 
timely  entrance  of  the  King. 

"  It  was  exactly  the  opposite  to  all  that  I  had  in 
my  mind,"  Irving  told  me,  "  and  I  would  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it.  I  wanted  the  domestic  Charles,  with 
his  wife  and  children  around  him,  and  I  would  have 
nothing  else." 

Happily  he  had  his  own  way,  and  with  the  help  of 
the  fine  lines  transferred  from  Ninon,  the  play  was 
received  with  acclamation,  and,  finely  acted  as  it  is 
now  by  Mr.  H.  B.  Irving  and  his  wife,  it  never  fails 
to  move  an  audience. 

I  think  it  was  John  Clayton  who  was  the  original 
Oliver  Cromwell.  I  was  told  that  his  make-up  was 
one  of  the  most  realistic  ever  seen.  He  was  Cromwell 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  145 

— to  the  wart!  Some  one  who  came  upon  him  in  his 
dressing-room  was  lost  in  admiration  of  the  perfecfion 
of  the  picture,  and  declared  that  the  painter  should 
sign  it  in  the  corner,  "  John  Clayton,  pinx."  But 
perhaps  the  actor  and  artist  was  Swinburne. 

Only  one  more  word  in  the  Bateman  connection. 
The  varying  fortunes  of  the  family  are  well  known — 
how  the  Bateman  children  made  a  marvellous  success 
for  a  time — how  the  eldest,  Kate,  played  for  months 
and  years  in  Leah,  filling  the  treasury  of  every  theatre 
in  England  and  America — how  when  the  Lyceum  was 
at  the  point  of  closing  its  odors,  The  Bells  rang  in 
an  era  of  prosperity  for  all  concerned;  but  I  don't 
suppose  that  many  people  know  that  Mrs.  Bateman, 
the  wife  of  "  The  Colonel,"  was  the  author  of  several 
novels  which  she  wrote  for  newspapers  at  one  of  the 
"  downs  "  that  preceded  the  "  ups  "  in  her  life. 

And  Compton  Mackenzie  is  Mrs.  Bateman's  grand- 
son! 

And  Fay  Compton  is  Compton  Mackenzie's  young- 
est sister. 

There  is  heredity  for  you. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTEENTH 

IT  was  melancholy — but  Atheist  Friswell  alone  was 
to  blame  for  it — that  we  should  sit  out  through  that 
lovely  evening  and  talk  about  tawdry  theatricals,  and 
that  same  tawdriness  more  than  a  little  musty  through 
time.  If  Friswell  had  not  begun  with  his  nonsense 
about  having  seen  my  Temple  somewhere  down 
Oxford  Street  we  should  never  have  wandered  from 
the  subject  of  gardens  until  we  lost  ourselves  among 
the  wings  of  the  Lyceum  and  its  "  profiles  "  of  its 
pines  in  lolanihe,  and  its  "  built "  yews  and  pome- 
granates in  Romeo  and  Juliet.  But  among  the  per- 
fume of  the  roses  surrounding  us,  with  an  occasional 
whiff  of  the  lavender  mound  and  a  gracious  breath 
like  that  of 

"  The  sweet  South 

That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets 
Giving  and  taking  odours," 

we  continued  talking  of  theatres  until  the  summer 
night  was  reeking  with  the  smell  of  sawdust  and 
oranges,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fragrance  of  the  poudre 
de.  ninon  of  the  stalls,  wafted  over  opera  wraps  and 
diamond-studded  shirt-fronts — diamond  studs,  when 
just  over  the  glimmering  marble  of  my  temple  the 
Evening  Star  was  glowing! 

146 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  147 

But  what  had  always  been  a  mystery  to  Friswell 
as  the  extraordinary  lack  of  judgment  on  Irving's 
part  in  choosing  his  plays.  Had  he  ever  made  a  suc- 
cess since  he  produced  that  adaptation  of  Faust? 

Beautifully  staged  and  with  some  splendid  mo- 
ments due  to  the  genius  of  the  man  himself  and  the 
never-failing  charm  of  the  actress  with  whom  he  was 
associated  in  all,  yet  no  play  worth  remembering  was 
produced  at  the  Lyceum  during  that  management. 
Faust  made  money,  as  it  always  has  since  the  days 
of  Marlowe;  but  all  those  noisy  scenes  and  meaning- 
less moments  on  the  misty  mountains — only  allitera- 
tion's artful  aid  can  deal  adequately  with  such  di- 
gressions from  the  story  of  Faust  and  Gretchen  which 
was  all  that  theatregoers,  even  of  the  better  class, 
who  go  to  the  pit,  wanted — seemed  dragged  into  the 
piece  without  reason  or  profit.     To  be  sure,  pages 
and  pages  of  Goethe's  Faust  are  devoted  to  his  at- 
tempt to  give  concreteness  to  abstractions.     (That 
was  Friswell's  phrase;  and  I  repeat  it  for  what  it  is 
worth) .    But  in  the  original  all  these  have  a  meaning 
at  the  back  of  them ;  but  Irving  only  brought  them  on 
to  abandon  them  after  a  line  or  two.     The  hope  to 
gain  the  atmosphere  of  the  weird  by  means  of  a  pano- 
rama of  clouds  and  mountain  peaks  may  have  been 
realised  so  far  as  some  sections  of  the  audience  were 
concerned;  but  such  a  manager  as  Henry  Irving 
should  have  been  above  trying  for  such  cheap  effects. 
Faust  made  money,  however,  and  helped  materially 
to  promote  the  formation  of  the  Company  through 
which  country  clergymen  and  daily  governesses  in 


148  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

the  provinces  hoped  to  advance  the  British  Drama 
and  earn  20  per  cent,  dividends. 

I  was  at  the  first  night  of  every  play  produced  at 
the  Lyceum  for  over  twenty  years,  and  I  knew  that 
Irving  never  fell  short  of  the  highest  and  the  truest 
possible  conception  of  any  part  that  he  attempted. 
At  his  best  he  was  unapproachable.  It  was  not  the 
actor  who  failed,  when  there  was  failure;  it  was  the 
play  that  failed.  Only  one  marvellously  inartistic 
feature  was  in  the  adaptation  of  The  Courier  of 
Lyons.  He  assumed  that  the  sole  way  by  which 
identification  of  a  man  is  possible  is  by  his  appearance 
— that  the  intonation  of  his  voice  counts  for  nothing 
whatsoever.  He  acted  in  the  dual  role  of  Dubosc  and 
Lesurges — the  one  a  gentle  creature  with  a  gentle 
voice,  the  other  a  truculent  ruffian  who  jerked  out  his 
words  hoarsely — the  very  antithesis  to  the  mild 
gentleman  in  voice,  in  gait,  and  in  general  demeanour, 
though  closely  resembling  him  in  features  and  ap- 
pearance. The  impression  given  by  this  representa- 
tion was  that  any  one  who,  having  heard  Dubosc 
speak,  would  mistake  Lesurges  for  him  must  be  either 
stone-deaf  or  an  idiot.  But  each  of  the  parts  was 
finely  played;  and  the  real  old  stage-coach  arriving 
with  its  team  smoking  like  Sheffield,  helped  to  make 
a  commonplace  melodrama  interesting. 

Personally  I  do  not  think  that  he  was  justified  in 
trying  to  realise  at  the  close  of  the  trial  scene  in  The 
Merchant  of  Venice,  the  tableau  of  Christ  standing 
mute  and  patient  among  the  mockers.  It  was  an 
attempt  to  obtain  by  suggestion  some  pity  and  sym- 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  149 

pathy  for  an  infamous  and  inhuman  scoundrel.  In 
that  pictorial  moment  Shylock  the  Jew  was  made  to 
pose  as  Christ  the  Jew. 

Mrs.  Friswell  had  not  seen  Irving's  Shylock,  but 
she  expressed  her  belief  that  Shylock  was  on  the 
whole  very  badly  treated;  and  Dorothy  was  ready  to 
affirm  that  Antonio  was  lacking  in  those  elements 
that  go  to  the  composition  of  a  sportsman.  He  should 
not  have  wriggled  out  of  his  bargain  by  the  chicanery 
of  the  law. 

:t  They  were  a  bad  lot,  and  that's  a  fact,"  I  ven- 
tured to  say. 

"  They  were,"  acquiesced  Friswell.  "  And  if  you 
look  into  the  history  of  the  Jews,  they  were  also  a 
bad  lot ;  but  among  them  were  the  most  splendid  men 
recorded  as  belonging  to  any  race  ever  known  on  this 
earth;  and  I'm  not  sure  that  Irving  wasn't  justified 
in  trying  to  get  his  audiences  to  realise  in  that  last 
moment  something  of  the  dignity  of  the  Hebrew 
people." 

"  He  would  have  made  a  more  distinct  advance  in 
that  direction  if  he  had  cut  out  the  '  business '  of 
stropping  his  knife  a  few  minutes  earlier,  *  To  cut  the 
forfeiture  from  that  bankrupt  there,'  "  I  remarked. 

"  If  he  had  done  that  Shakespeare  would  not  have 
had  the  chance  of  his  pun — the  cheapest  pun  in  litera- 
ture— and  it  would  not  be  like  the  author  to  have  neg- 
lected that,"  said  Mrs.  Friswell. 

They  all  seemed  to  know  more  of  the  play  than  I 
gave  them  credit  for  knowing. 

It  was  Heywood  who  inquired  if  I  remembered 


150  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

another  of  Irving's  plays  at  the  close  of  which  a  sec- 
ond greatly  misjudged  character  had  appealed  for 
sympathy  by  adopting  the  same  pose. 

Of  course  I  did — I  remembered  it  very  distinctly. 
It  was  in  Peter  the  Great,  that  the  actor,  waiting  with 
sublime  resignation  to  hear  the  heart-rending  death- 
shriek  of  his  son  whom  he  had  condemned  to  drink  a 
cup  of  cold  poison,  is  told  by  a  hurrying  messenger 
that  his  illegitimate  child  has  just  died — then  came  the 
hideous  shriek,  and  the  actor,  with  his  far-away  look 
of  patient  anguish,  spoke  his  words, — 

"Then  I  am  childless!" 

And  the  curtain  fell. 

He  appealed  for  sympathy  on  precisely  the  same 
grounds  as  were  suggested  by  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar  who  had  killed  his  father  with  a  hatchet,  and  on 
being  convicted  by  the  jury  and  asked  by  the  judge 
if  he  could  advance  any  plea  whereby  the  sentence  of 
death  should  not  be  pronounced  upon  him,  said  he 
hoped  that  his  lordship  would  not  forget  that  he  was 
an  orphan. 

In  this  drama  the  first  act  was  played  with  as  much 
jingling  of  sleigh-bells  as  took  place  in  another  and 
rather  better  known  piece  in  the  repertoire  of  the  same 
actor. 

But  whatever  were  its  shortcomings,  Peter  the 
Great  showed  that  poor  Lawrence  Irving  could  write, 
and  write  well,  and  that  he  might  one  day  give  to 
the  English  theatre  a  great  drama. 

Irving  was  accused  of  neglecting  English  authors ; 
but  the  accusation  was  quite  unjust.  He  gave  several 


151 

of  them  a  chance.  There  was,  of  course,  W.  G.  Wills, 
who  was  a  true  dramatist,  and  showed  it  in  those  plays 
to  which  I  have  referred.  But  it  must  not  be  for- 
gotten that  he  produced  a  play  by  Mr.  H.  D.  Traill 
and  Mr.  Robert  Kitchens,  and  another  by  Herman 
Merrivale;  Mr.  J.  Comyns  Carr  took  in  hand  the  fin- 
ishing of  King  Arthur,  begun  by  Wills,  and  made  it 
ridiculous,  and  helped  in  translating  and  adapting 
Madame  Sans  Gene.  Might  not  Lord  Tennyson  also 
be  called  an  English  author?  and  were  not  his  three 
plays,  Queen  Mary,  The  Cup,  and  Becket  brought 
out  at  the  Lyceum?  Irving  showed  me  how  he  had 
made  the  last-named  playable,  and  I  confess  that  I 
was  astonished.  There  was  not  a  single  page  of  the 
book  remaining  untouched  when  he  had  done  with  it. 
Speech  after  speech  was  transferred  from  one  act  to 
another,  and  the  sequence  of  the  scenes  was  altered, 
before  the  drama  was  made  possible.  But  when  he 
had  finished  with  it  Becket  was  not  only  possible  and 
playable,  it  was  the  noblest  and  the  best  constructed 
drama  in  verse  that  the  stage  had  seen  for  years. 

I  asked  him  what  Lord  Tennyson  had  said  about 
this  chopping  and  changing;  but  he  did  not  give  me 
a  verbatim  account  of  the  poet's  greeting  of  his  off- 
spring in  its  stage  dress — he  only  smiled  as  one  smiles 
under  the  influence  of  a  reminiscence  of  something 
that  is  better  over. 

When  he  went  to  Victorien  Sardou  for  a  new  play 
and  got  Robespierre,  Irving  got  the  worst  thing  that 
he  had  produced  up  to  that  date;  but  when  he  went 
a  second  time  and  got  Dante,  he  got  something  worse 


152  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

still.  Sir  Arthur  Finer o's  letter  acknowledging  the 
debt  incurred  by  the  dramatists  of  England  to  M. 
Sardou  for  showing  them  how  a  play  should  be  writ- 
ten was  a  masterpiece  of  irony. 

The  truth  is  that  Irving  was  the  greatest  of  Eng- 
lish actors,  and  he  was  at  his  best  only  when  he  was 
interpreting  the  best.  When  he  was  acting  Shake- 
speare he  was  supreme.  In  scenes  of  passion  he  dif- 
fered from  most  actors.  They  could  show  a  passion 
in  the  hands  of  a  man,  he  showed  the  man  in  the  hands 
of  a  passion.  And  what  actor  could  have  represented 
Corporal  Brewster  in  Waterloo  as  Irving  did? 

About  the  changes  that  we  veterans  have  seen  in 
the  stage  during  the  forty  years  of  our  playgoing,  we 
agree  that  one  of  the  most  remarkable  is  the  intro- 
duction of  parsons  and  pyjamas,  and  of  persons  with 
a  past.  All  these  glories  of  the  modern  theatre  were 
shut  out  from  the  theatres  of  forty  years  ago.  When 
an  adaptation  of  Dora  by  the  author  of  Fedora  and 
Theodora  was  made  for  the  English  stage  under  the 
name  of  Diplomacy,  the  claim  that  the  Countess  with 
a  past  had  upon  the  Diplomatist  who  is  going  to 
marry — really  marry — another  woman,  was  turned 
into  a  claim  that  she  had  "  nursed  him  through  a  long 
illness."  The  censor  of  those  days  thought  that  that 
was  quite  as  far  as  any  one  should  go  in  that  direc- 
tion. It  was  assumed  that  La  Dame  aux  Camelias 
could  never  be  adapted  without  being  offensive  to  a 
pure-minded  English  audience.  I  think  that  A  Cleri- 
cal Error  was  the  first  play  in  which  a  clergyman  of 
the  Church  of  England  was  given  the  entree  to  a 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  153 

theatre  in  London.  To  be  sure,  there  were  priests  of 
the  Church  of  Rome  in  Dion  Boucicault's  Irish  plays, 
but  they  were  not  supposed  to  count.  I  heard  that 
Mr.  Pigott,  the  Censor,  only  passed  the  parson  in  A 
Clerical  Error  on  the  plea  of  the  young  nurse  for 
something  equally  forbidden,  in  Midshipman  Easy, 
that  "  it  was  a  very  little  one."  But  from  that  day 
until  now  we  have  had  parsons  by  the  score,  ladies 
wearing  camellias  and  little  else,  by  the  hundred.  As 
for  the  pyjama  drama,  I  don't  suppose  that  any  man- 
ager would  so  much  as  read  a  play  that  had  not  this 
duplex  garment  in  one  scene.  I  will  confess  that  I 
once  wrote  a  story  for  Punch  with  a  pyjama  chorus  in 
it.  If  it  was  from  this  indiscretion  that  a  manager 
conceived  the  idea  of  a  ballet  founded  on  the  same 
costume  I  have  something  to  answer  for. 

But  in  journalism  and  literature  a  corresponding 
change  has  come  about,  only  more  recently.  It  is 
not  more  than  ten  or  twelve  years  since  certain  words 
have  enjoyed  the  liberty  of  the  press.  In  a  police- 
court  case  the  word  that  the  ruffian  in  the  dock  hurled 
at  a  policeman  was  represented  thus — "  d — n,"  telling 

him  to  go  to  "  h " ;  no  respectable  newspaper 

would  ever  put  in  the  final  letter. 

But  now  we  have  had  the  highest  examples  of 
amalgamated  newspapers  printing  the  name  of  the 
place  that  was  to  be  found  in  neither  gazette  nor 
gazetteer,  in  bold  type  at  the  head  of  a  column,  and 
that  too  in  connection  with  the  utterance  of  a  Prime 
Minister.  As  for  the  d — n  of  ten  years  ago,  no  one 
could  have  believed  that  Bob  Acres'  thoughtless  as- 


154  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

sertion  that  "  damns  have  had  their  day,"  should  be 
so  luridly  disproved.  Why,  they  have  only  now  come 
into  their  inheritance.  This  is  the  day  of  the  damn. 
It  occupies  the  Place*  aux  Dames  of  Victorian  times ; 
and  now  one  need  not  hope  to  be  able  to  pick  up  a 
paper  or  a  book  that  has  not  most  of  its  pages 
sprinkled  with  damns  and  hells  as  plentifully  as  a 
devil  is  sprinkled  with  cayenne.  I  am  sure  that  in  the 
cookery  books  of  our  parents  the  treatment  of  a 
devilled  bone  would  not  be  found,  or  if  the  more  con- 
scientious admitted  it,  we  should  find  it  put,  "  how  to 
cook  a  d bone,"  or,  "  another  way,"  as  the  cook- 
ery book  would  put  it  more  explicitly,  "  a  d — d  bone." 

"  It  is  satisfactory  to  learn  that  the  Church  which 
so  long  enjoyed  the  soul  right  to  the  property  in  these 
words,  has  relinquished  its  claim  and  handed  over  the 
title  deeds  of  the  freehold,  with  all  the  patronage  that 
was  supposed  to  go  with  it,"  said  Friswell.  "  I  read 
in  the  papers  the  other  day  that  the  Archbishop  had 
received  the  report  of  the  Committee  he  appointed  to 
inquire  into  the  rights  of  both  words,  and  this  recom- 
mended the  abolition  of  both  words  in  the  interpreta- 
tion accepted  for  them  for  centuries  in  religious  com- 
munities; and  in  future  damnation  is  to  be  taken  to 
mean  only  something  that  does  not  commend  itself 
to  all  temperaments,  and  hell  is  no  more  than  a  pic- 
turesque but  insanitary  dwelling." 

"  I  read  something  like  that  the  other  day,"  said 
Dorothy.  "  But  surely  they  have  not  gone  so  far  as 
you  say." 

"  They  have  gone  to  a  much  more  voluminous 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  155 

distance,  I  assure  you,"  said  he.  "  It  is  to  enable  us 
all  to  say  the  Athanasian  Creed  without  our  tongue 
in  our  cheek.  Quicunque  vult  may  repeat  '  Qui- 
cunque  Vult '  with  a  full  assurance  that  nothing 
worth  talking  about  will  happen." 

"  All  the  Bishops'  Committees  in  the  world  cannot 
rob  us  Englishmen  of  our  heritage  in  those  words," 
I  cried,  feeling  righteously  angry  at  the  man's  flip- 
pancy. "  If  they  were  to  take  that  from  us,  what  can 
they  give  us  in  its  place — tell  me  that?  " 

"  Oh,  there  is  still  one  word  in  the  same  connection 
that  they  have  been  afraid  to  touch,"  said  he  cheer- 
fully. '  Thank  Heaven  we  have  still  got  that  to 
counteract  any  tendency  of  our  language  to  become 


aneemic." 


CHAPTER  THE  FOURTEENTH 

I  HAD  been  practically  all  my  life  enjoying  gardens 
of  various  kinds,  but  I  had  given  attention  to  their 
creations  without  giving  a  thought  to  their  creation; 
I  had  taken  the  gifts  of  Flora,  I  would  have  said  if  I 
had  been  writing  a  hundred  years  ago,  without  study- 
ing the  features  or  the  figure  of  the  goddess  herself. 
If  I  were  hard  pressed  for  time  and  space  I  would 
say  directly  that  I  lived  among  flowers,  but  knew 
nothing  of  gardens.  I  had  never  troubled  myself  to 
inquire  into  the  details  of  a  garden's  charm.  I  had 
watched  gardeners  working  and  idling,  mowing  and 
watering,  tying  up  and  cutting  down,  but  I  had  never 
had  a  chance  of  watching  a  real  gardener  making  a 
garden. 

It  is  generally  assumed  that  the  first  gardener  that 
the  world  has  known  was  Adam.  A  clergyman  told 
me  so  with  the  smile  that  comes  with  the  achievement 
of  a  satisfactory  benefice — the  indulgent  smile  of  the 
higher  criticism  for  the  Book  of  Genesis.  But  people 
who  agree  with  that  assumption  cannot  have  read 
the  Book  with  the  attention  it  deserves,  or  they  would 
have  seen  that  it  was  the  Creator  of  all  Who  planted 
the  first  garden,  and  there  are  people  alive  to-day 
who  are  ready  to  affirm  that  He  worked  conscien- 

156 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  157 

tiously  on  the  lines  laid  down  by  Le  Notre.  Most 
gardeners  whom  I  have  seen  at  work  appeared  to  me 
to  be  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  the  garden  was  given 
to  man  as  a  beatitude,  and  that  agriculture  came  later 
and  in  the  form  of  a  Curse;  and  in  accordance  with 
this  assurance  they  decline  to  labour  in  such  a  way  as 
to  make  the  terms  of  the  Curse  apply  to  themselves. 
If  they  wipe  their  brows  with  their  shirt-sleeve,  it  is 
only  because  that  is  the  traditional  movement  which 
precedes  the  consulting  of  their  watch  to  see  if  that 
five  minutes  before  the  striking  of  the  stable  clock 
for  the  dinner  hour  will  allow  of  their  putting  on  their 
coats. 

A  friend  of  mine  who  had  been  reading  Darwin  and 
Wallace  and  Lyell  and  Huxley  and  the  rest  of  them, 
greatly  to  the  detriment  of  his  interpretation  of  some 
passages  in  the  Pentateuch,  declared  that  the  record 
of  the  incident  of  the  Garden  Designer  in  the  first 
chapters  of  Genesis,  being  unable  to  do  anything  with 
his  gardener  and  being  obliged  (making  use  of  a 
Shakespearian  idiom)  to  fire  him  out,  showed  such  a 
knowledge  of  the  trade,  that,  Darwin  or  no  Darwin, 
he  would  accept  the  account  of  the  transaction  with- 
out reservation. 

The  saying  that  God  sent  food  but  the  devil  sent 
cooks  may  be  adapted  to  horticulture,  as  a  rule,  I 
think;  but  it  should  certainly  not  be  applied  indis- 
criminately. The  usual  "  jobber "  is  a  man  from 
whom  employers  expect  a  great  deal  but  get  very 
little  that  is  satisfactory.  That  is  because  employers 
are  unreasonable.  The  ordinary  "  working  gar- 


158  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

dener  "  does  not  think,  because  he  is  not  paid  to  think : 
he  does  not  get  the  wages  of  a  man  who  is  required  to 
use  his  brain.  When  one  discovers  all  that  a  gardener 
should  know,  and  learns  that  the  average  wage  of  the 
trade  is  from  one  pound  to  thirty  shillings  a  week,  the 
unreasonableness  of  expecting  a  high  order  of  intelli- 
gence to  be  placed  at  your  service  for  such  pay  will  be 
apparent. 

Of  course  a  "  head  "  at  an  establishment  where  he 
is  called  a  "  curator  "  and  has  half  a  dozen  assistants, 
gets  a  decent  salary  and  fully  earns  it;  but  the  pay 
of  the  greater  number  of  the  men  who  call  themselves 
gardeners  is  low  out  of  all  proportion  to  what  their 
qualifications  should  be. 

Now  this  being  so,  is  the  improvement  to  come  by 
increasing  the  wages  of  the  usual  type  of  garden  job- 
ber? I  doubt  it.  My  experience  leads  me  to  believe 
very  strongly  in  the  employer's  being  content  with 
work  only,  and  in  his  making  no  demand  for  brains 
or  erudition  from  the  man  to  whom  he  pays  twenty- 
five  shillings  a  week — pre-war  rates,  of  course:  the 
war-time  equivalent  would,  of  course,  be  something 
like  £2  5s. — the  brains  and  erudition  should  be  pro- 
vided by  himself.  The  employer  or  some  member  of 
his  family  should  undertake  the  direction  of  the  work 
and  ask  for  the  work  only  from  the  man. 

I  know  that  the  war  days  were  the  means  of  devel- 
oping this  system  beyond  all  that  one  thought  pos- 
sible five  or  six  years  ago;  and  of  one  thing  I  am 
sure,  and  this  is  that  no  one  who  has  been  compelled 
to  "  take  up  "  his  own  garden  will  ever  go  back  to  the 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  159 

old  way,  the  leading  note  of  which  was  the  morning 
grumble  at  the  inefficiency  of  the  gardener,  and  the 
evening  resolution  to  fire  him  out.  The  distinction 
between  exercise  and  work  has,  within  the  past  few 
fateful  years,  been  obliterated ;  and  it  has  become  ac- 
cepted generally  that  to  sweat  over  the  handle  of  a 
lawnmower  is  just  as  ennobling  as  to  perspire  for  over 
after  over  at  a  bowling  crease ;  and  that  the  man  who 
comes  in  earth-stained  from  his  allotment,  is  not 
necessarily  the  social  inferior  of  the  man  who  carries 
away  on  his  knees  a  sample  of  the  soil  of  the  football 
field.  There  may  be  a  distinction  between  the  work 
and  the  play;  but  it  is  pretty  much  the  same  as  the 
difference  between  the  Biblical  verb  to  sweat  and  the 
boudoir  word  to  perspire.  The  pores  are  opened  by 
the  one  just  as  healthfully  as  by  the  other.  And  in 
future  I  am  pretty  sure  that  we  shall  all  sweat  and 
rarely  perspire. 

I  need  not  give  any  of  the  "  instances  "  that  have 
come  under  my  notice  of  great  advantage  accruing 
to  the  garden  as  well  as  to  the  one  who  gardens 
without  an  indifferent  understudy — every  one  who 
reads  this  book  is  in  a  position  to  supply  such  an 
omission.  I  am  sure  that  there  is  no  country  town  or 
village  that  cannot  mention  the  name  of  some  family, 
a  member  or  several  members  of  which  have  been 
hard  at  work  raising  flowers  or  vegetables  or  grow- 
ing fruit,  with  immediately  satisfactory  results,  and  a 
prospect  of  something  greatly  in  advance  in  the 
future. 

I  am  only  in  a  position  to  speak  definitely  on  be- 


160 

half  of  the  working  proprietor,  but  I  am  certain  that 
the  daughters  of  the  house  who  have  been  working  so 
marvellously  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  at  the 
turning  out  of  munitions,  taking  the  place  of  men  in 
fields  and  byres,  and  doing  active  duties  in  connection 
with  hospitals,  huts,  and  canteens,  will  not  now  be 
content  to  go  back  to  their  tennis  and  teas  and  "  dis- 
tricts "  as  before.  They  will  find  their  souls  in  other 
and  more  profitable  directions,  and  it  is  pretty  certain 
that  the  production  of  food  will  occupy  a  large  num- 
ber of  the  emancipated  ones.  We  shall  have  vege- 
tables and  fruit  and  eggs  in  such  abundance  as  was 
never  dreamt  of  four  years  ago.  Why,  already  potato 
crops  of  twelve  tons  to  the  acre  are  quite  common, 
whereas  an  aggregate  of  eight  and  nine  tons  was  con- 
sidered very  good  in  1912.  We  all  know  the  improve- 
ment that  has  been  brought  about  in  regard  to  poul- 
try, in  spite  of  the  weathercockerel  admonition  of  the 
Department  of  the  Government,  which  one  month 
sent  out  a  million  circulars  imploring  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  people  to  keep  poultry,  and  backed  this 
up  with  a  second  million  advising  the  immediate 
slaughter  of  all  fowls  who  had  a  fancy  for  cereals  as 
a  food;  the  others  were  to  be  fed  on  the  crumbs  that 
fell  from  the  master's  table,  but  if  the  master  were 
known  to  give  the  crumbs  to  birds  instead  of  eating 
them  himself  or  making  them  into  those  poultices, 
recommended  by  another  Department  that  called 
them  puddings,  he  would  be  prosecuted.  Later  on 
we  were  to  be  provided  with  a  certain  amount  of  stuff 
for  pure  bred  fowls,  in  order  that  only  the  purest  and 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  161 

best  strains  should  be  kept;  but  no  provision  in  the 
way  of  provisions  was  made  for  the  cockerels!  The 
cockerels  were  to  be  discouraged,  but  the  breeding  of 
pure  fowls  was  to  be  encouraged! 

It  took  another  million  or  so  of  buff  Orpington 
circulars  to  explain  just  what  was  meant  by  the  De- 
partment, and  even  then  it  needed  a  highly-trained 
intelligence  to  explain  the  explanation. 

When  we  get  rid  of  these  clogs  to  industry  known 
as  Departments,  we  shall,  I  am  sure,  all  work  together 
to  the  common  good,  in  making  England  a  self-sup- 
porting country,  and  the  men  and  women  of  Eng- 
land a  self-respecting  people,  and  in  point  of  health 
an  A  1  people  instead  of  the  C  3  into  which  we  are 
settling  down  complacently.  The  statistics  of  the 
grades  recently  published  appeared  to  me  to  be  the 
greatest  cause  for  alarm  that  England  has  known  for 
years.  And  the  worst  of  the  matter  is  that  when 
one  asks  if  a  more  ample  proof  of  decadence  has  ever 
been  revealed,  people  smile  and  inquire  if  the  result  of 
the  recent  visits  of  the  British  to  France  and  Italy 
and  Palestine  and  Mesopotamia  suggest  any  evidence 
of  decadence.  They  forget  that  it  was  only  the  A 
classes  that  left  England;  only  the  A  classes  were 
killed  or  maimed ;  the  lower  grades  remained  at  home 
with  their  wives  in  order  that  the  decadent  breed 
might  be  carried  on  with  emphasised  decadence. 

If  I  were  asked  in  what  direction  one  should  look 
for  the  salvation  of  the  race  from  the  rush  into  Aver- 
nus  toward  which  we  have  been  descending,  I  would 
certainly  say, — 


162  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

"  The  garden  and  the  allotment  only  will  arrest  our 
feet  on  the  downward  path." 

If  the  people  of  England  can  throw  off  the  yoke  of 
the  Cinema  and  take  to  the  spade  it  may  not  yet  be 
too  late  to  rescue  them  from  the  abyss  toward  which 
they  are  sliding. 

And  it  is  not  merely  the  sons  who  must  be  saved, 
the  daughters  must  be  taken  into  account  in  this  di- 
rection ;  and  when  I  meet  daily  the  scores  of  trim  and 
shapely  girls  with  busts  of  Venus  and  buskins  of 
Diana,  walking — vera  incessu  patuit  dea — as  if  the 
land  belonged  to  them — which  it  does — I  feel  no  un- 
easiness with  regard  to  the  women  with  whom  Eng- 
land's future  rests.  If  they  belong  to  the  land, 
assuredly  the  land  belongs  to  them. 

But  the  garden  and  not  the  field  is  the  place  for  our 
girls.  We  know  what  the  women  are  like  in  those 
countries  where  they  work  in  the  fields  doing  men's 
work.  We  have  seen  them  in  Jean  Fra^ois  Millet's 
pictures,  and  we  turn  from  them  with  tears. 

"  Women  with  labour-loosened  knees 

And  gaunt  backs  bowed  with  servitude." 

We  do  not  wish  to  see  them  in  England.  I  have  seen 
them  in  Italy,  in  Switzerland,  and  on  the  Boer  farms 
in  South  Africa.  I  do  not  want  to  see  them  in  Eng- 
land. 

Agriculture  is  for  men,  horticulture  for  women.  A 
woman  is  in  her  right  place  in  a  garden.  A  garden 
looks  lovelier  for  her  presence.  What  an  incongruous 
object  a  jobbing  gardener  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  163 

filthy  cap  seems  when  seen  against  a  background  of 
flowers!  I  have  kept  out  of  my  garden  for  days  in 
dread  of  coming  upon  the  figure  which  I  knew  was 
lurking  there,  spending  his  time  looking  out  for  me 
and  working  feverishly  when  he  thought  I  was  com- 
ing. 

But  how  pleasantly  at  home  a  girl  in  her  garden 
garb  appears,  whether  on  the  rungs  of  a  ladder  tying 
up  the  roses,  or  doing  some  thinning  out  on  a  too 
rampant  border!  There  should  be  no  work  in  a 
garden  beyond  her  powers — that  is,  of  course,  in  a 
one-gardener  garden — a  one-greenhouse  garden.  She 
has  no  business  trying  to  carry  a  tub  with  a  shrub 
weighing  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  from  one 
place  to  another;  but  she  can  wheel  a  brewer's  or  a 
coalman's  sack  barrow  with  two  nine-inch  wheels  with 
two  hundredweight  resting  on  it  for  half  a  mile  with- 
out feeling  weary.  No  garden  should  be  without  such 
a  vehicle.  One  that  I  bought  ten  years  ago  from  a 
general  dealer  has  enabled  me  to  superannuate  the 
cumbersome  wheelbarrow.  You  require  to  lift  the 
tub  into  the  wheelbarrow,  but  the  other  does  the  lift- 
ing when  you  push  the  iron  guard  four  inches  under 
the  staves  at  the  bottom.  As  for  that  supposed  bug- 
bear— the  carting  of  manure,  it  should  not  exist  in  a 
modern  garden.  A  five-shilling  tin  of  fertiliser  and  a 
few  sacks  of  Wakeley's  hop  mixture  will  be  enough 
for  the  borders  of  a  garden  of  an  acre,  unless  you  aim 
at  growing  everything  to  an  abnormal  size.  But  you 
must  know  what  sort  of  fertilising  every  bed  requires. 

I  mention  these  facts  because  we  read  constantly 


164  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

of  the  carting  of  manure  being  beyond  the  limits  of 
a  girl-gardener's  strength,  to  say  nothing  of  the  dis- 
tasteful character  of  the  job.  The  time  is  coming 
when  there  will  be  none  of  the  old-fashioned  stable- 
sweepings  either  for  the  garden  or  the  field,  and  I 
think  we  shall  get  on  very  well  without  it,  unless  we 
wish  to  grow  mushrooms. 

The  only  other  really  horrid  job  that  I  would  not 
have  my  girl  face  is  pot-washing.  This  is  usually  a 
winter  job,  because,  we  are  told,  summer  is  too  busy 
a  time  in  the  garden  to  allow  of  its  being  done  except 
when  the  ice  has  to  be  broken  in  the  cistern  and  no 
other  work  is  possible.  But  why  should  the  pots  be 
washed  out  of  doors  and  in  cold  water?  If  you  have 
a  girl-gardener,  why  should  you  not  give  her  the  free- 
dom of  the  scullery  sink  where  the  hot  water  is  laid 
on?  There  is  no  hardship  in  washing  a  couple  of 
hundred  pots  in  hot  water  and  in  a  warm  scullery  on 
the  most  inclement  day  in  January. 

The  truth  is  that  there  exists  a  garden  tradition, 
and  it  originated  with  men  who  had  neither  imagina- 
tion nor  brains,  and  people  would  have  us  believe  that 
it  must  be  maintained — that  frogs  and  toads  should  be 
slain  and  that  gardener  is  a  proper  noun  of  the  mas- 
culine gender — that  manure  must  be  filthy  and  that 
a  garden  should  never  look  otherwise  than  unfinished 
at  any  time  of  the  year — that  radiation  is  the  same  as 
frost,  and  that  watering  should  be  done  regularly 
and  without  reference  to  the  needs  of  the  individual 
plants. 

Lady  Wolseley  has  done  a  great  deal  toward  giv- 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  165 

ing  girls  the  freedom  of  the  garden.  She  has  a  small 
training  ground  on  the  motor  road  between  Lewes 
and  Eastbourne.  Of  course  it  is  not  large  enough  to 
pay  its  way,  and  I  am  told  that  in  order  to  realise 
something  on  the  produce,  the  pony  cart  of  a  coster- 
monger  in  charge  of  two  of  the  young  women  goes 
into  Lewes  laden  with  vegetables  for  sale.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  the  vegetables  are  of  the  highest  grade, 
but  I  am  afraid  that  if  it  becomes  understood  that  the 
pupils  are  to  be  trained  in  the  arts  of  costermongery 
the  prestige  of  her  college,  as  it  has  very  properly 
been  called  by  Lady  Wolseley,  will  suffer. 

What  I  cannot  understand  is  why,  with  so  ad- 
mirable a  work  being  done  at  that  place,  it  should  not 
be  subsidised  by  the  State.  It  may  be,  however,  that 
Lady  Wolseley  has  had  such  experience  of  the  way  in 
which  the  State  authorities  mismanage  almost  every- 
thing they  handle,  as  prevents  her  from  moving  in 
this  direction.  The  waste,  the  incompetence,  and  the 
arrogance  of  all  the  Departments  that  sprang  into 
existence  with  the  war  are  inconceivable.  I  dare  say 
that  Lady  Wolseley  has  seen  enough  during  the  past 
four  years  to  convince  her  that  if  once  the  "  State  " 
had  a  chance  of  putting  a  controlling  finger  upon  one 
of  the  reins  of  the  college  pony  it  would  upset  the 
whole  apple-cart.  The  future  of  so  valuable  an  in- 
stitution should  not  be  jeopardised  by  the  intrusion 
of  the  fatal  finger  of  a  Government  Department. 
The  Glynde  College  should  be  the  Norland  Institu- 
tion of  the  nursery  of  Flora. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTEENTH 

IT  was  when  a  gardener  with  whom  I  had  never  ex- 
changed a  cross  word  during  the  two  years  he  was 
with  me  assured  me  that  work  was  not  work  but 
slavery  in  my  garden — he  had  one  man  under  him  and 
appealed  to  me  for  a  second — that  I  made  my  apol- 
ogy to  him  and  allowed  him  to  take  unlimited  leave 
of  me  and  his  shackles.  He  had  been  with  me  for 
over  two  years,  and  during  all  this  time  the  garden 
had  been  going  from  bad  to  worse.  At  the  end  of 
his  bondage  it  was  absolutely  deplorable.  At  no  time 
had  we  the  courage  to  ask  any  visitor  to  walk  round 
the  grounds. 

And  yet  the  man  knew  the  Latin  name  of  every 
plant  and  every  flower  from  the  cedar  on  the  lawn 
to  the  snapdragon — he  called  it  antirrhinum — upon 
the  wall ;  but  if  he  had  remained  with  me  much  longer 
there  would  have  been  nothing  left  for  him  to  give  a 
name  to,  Latin  or  English. 

I  took  over  the  garden  and  got  in  a  boy  to  do  the 
pot-washing  at  six  shillings  a  week,  and  a  fortnight 
later  I  doubled  his  wages,  so  vast  a  change,  or  rather, 
a  promise  of  change,  as  was  shown  by  the  place. 
Within  a  month  I  was  paying  him  fifteen  shillings, 
and  within  six  months,  eighteen.  He  was  an  excellent 

166 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  167 

lad,  and  in  due  time  his  industry  was  rewarded  by  the 
hand  of  our  cook.  I  parted  with  him  reluctantly  at 
the  outbreak  of  the  war,  though  owing  to  physical 
defects  he  was  never  called  up. 

It  was  when  I  was  thrown  on  my  own  resources 
after  the  strain  of  leave-taking  with  my  slave-driven 
professor  that  I  acquired  the  secret  of  garden  design 
which  I  have  already  revealed — namely,  the  multiply- 
ing of  "  features  "  within  the  garden  space. 

It  took  time  for  me  to  carry  out  my  plans,  for  I 
was  very  far  from  seeing,  as  a  proper  garden  designer 
would  have  done  in  a  glance,  how  the  ground  lent 
itself  to  "  features  "  in  various  directions;  and  it  was 
only  while  I  was  working  at  one  part  that  the  possi- 
bilities of  others  suggested  themselves  to  me.  It  was 
the  incident  of  my  picking  up  in  a  stonemason's  yard 
for  a  few  shillings  a  doorway  with  a  shaped  archi- 
trave, that  made  me  think  of  shutting  off  the  House 
Garden,  which  I  had  completed  the  previous  year, 
from  the  rest.  I  got  this  work  done  quite  satisfac- 
torily by  the  aid  of  a  simple  balustrade  on  each  side. 
Here  there  was  an  effective  entrance  to  a  new  garden, 
where  before  nothing  would  grow  owing  to  the  over- 
shadowing by  the  sycamores  beyond  my  mound.  My 
predecessor  took  refuge  in  a  grove  of  euonyma,  be- 
hind which  he  artfully  concealed  the  stone  steps  lead- 
ing to  the  Saxon  terrace.  This  was  one  of  the  "  fea- 
tures "  of  his  day — the  careful  concealing  of  such 
drawbacks  in  the  landscape  as  stone  steps.  But  as 
I  could  not  see  that  they  were  after  all  a  fatal  blot 
that  should  put  an  end  to  all  hope  to  make  anything 


168  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

of  the  place,  I  pulled  away  the  masses  of  euonyma, 
and  turned  the  steps  boldly  round,  adding  piers  at  the 
foot. 

Here  then  was  at  my  command  a  space  of  forty 
feet  square,  walled  in,  and  in  the  summer-shade  of  the 
high  sycamores,  and  the  winter-shade  of  a  beautifully- 
shaped  and  immense  deciduous  oak.  And  what  was 
I  to  do  with  it? 

Before  I  left  the  interrogatory  ground  I  saw  with 
great  clearness  the  reflection  of  the  graceful  foliage 
in  a  piece  of  water.  That  was  just  what  was  needed 
at  the  place,  I  was  convinced — a  properly  puddled 
Sussex  dew-pond  such  as  Gilbert  White's  swallows 
could  hardly  resist  making  their  winter  quarters  as 
the  alternative  to  that  long  and  tedious  trip  to  South 
Africa.  The  spot  was  clearly  designed  by  Nature  as 
a  basin.  On  three  sides  it  had  boundaries  of  sloping 
mounds,  and  I  felt  myself  equal  to  the  business  of 
completing  the  circle  so  that  the  basin  would  be  in  its 
natural  place. 

I  consulted  my  builder  as  to  whether  or  not  my 
plan  was  a  rightly  puddled  one — which  was  a  way  of 
asking  if  it  would  hold  water  in  a  scientific  as  well 
as  a  metaphorical  sense.  He  advised  concrete,  and 
concrete  I  ordered,  though  I  was  quite  well  aware  of 
the  fact  that  in  doing  so  I  must  abandon  all  hopes 
of  the  swallows,  for  I  knew  that  with  concrete  there 
would  be  none  of  that  mud  in  the  pond  which  the 
great  naturalists  had  agreed  was  indispensable  for  the 
hibernating  of  the  birds. 

A  round  pond  basin  was  made,  about  fifteen  feet 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  169 

in  diameter,  and  admirably  made  too.  In  the  centre 
I  created  an  island  with  the  nozzle  of  a  single  jet 
d'eau,  carefully  concealed,  and  by  an  extraordinary 
chance  I  discovered  within  an  inch  or  two  of  the  brim 
of  the  basin,  the  channel  of  an  ancient  scheme  of 
drainage — it  may  have  been  a  thousand  years  old — 
and  this  solved  in  a  moment  the  problem  of  how  to 
carry  off  the  overflow.  The  water  was  easily  avail- 
able from  the  ordinary  "  Company's  "  pipe  for  the 
garden  supply ;  so  that  all  that  remained  for  me  to  do 
was  to  tidy  up  the  ground,  which  I  did  by  getting  six 
tons  of  soft  reddish  sandstone  from  a  neighbouring 
quarry  and  piling  it  in  irregular  masses  on  two  sectors 
of  the  circular  space,  taking  care  to  arrange  for  a 
scheme  of  "  pockets  "  for  small  plants  at  one  part  and 
for  large  ferns  at  another.  The  greatest  elevation  of 
this  boundary  was  about  fifteen  feet,  and  here  I  put  a 
noble  cliff  weighing  a  ton  and  a  half,  with  several 
irregular  steps  at  the  base,  the  lowest  being  just 
above  a  series  of  stone  rectangular  basins,  connected 
by  irregular  shallow  channels  in  a  descent  to  the  big 
pond.  Then  I  got  a  leaden  pipe  with  an  "  elbow  " 
attachment  to  the  Company's  water  supply  beneath, 
and  contrived  a  sort  of  T-shaped  spray  which  I  con- 
cealed on  the  level  of  the  top  of  my  cliff,  and  within 
forty-eight  hours  I  had  a  miniature  cascade  pouring 
over  the  cliff  and  splashing  among  the  stone  basins 
and  their  channels  — te  per  aver' pace  coi  seguaci  sui " 
— in  the  large  pond  below. 

Of  course  it  took  a  summer  and  a  winter  to  give 
this  little  scheme  a  chance  of  assimilating  with  Nature ; 


170  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

but  once  it  began  to  do  so  it  did  so  thoroughly.  The 
cliff  and  the  rocky  steps,  which  I  had  made  in  mem- 
ory of  the  cascade  at  Platte  Klip  on  the  side  of  Table 
Mountain  where  I  had  often  enjoyed  a  bath,  became 
beautifully  slimy,  and  primroses  were  blooming  so 
as  to  hide  the  outlines  of  the  rectangle,  while  Alpines 
and  sedums  and  harts-tongue  ferns  found  accommo- 
dation in  the  pockets  among  the  stones.  In  the  course 
of  another  year  the  place  was  covered  with  vegetation 
and  the  sandstones  had  become  beautifully  weathered, 
and  sure  enough,  the  boughs  of  the  American  oak  had 
their  Narcissus  longings  realised,  but  without  the 
Narcissus  sequel. 

Here,  then,  was  a  second  "  feature  "  accomplished; 
and  we  walk  out  of  the  sunshine  of  the  House  Garden, 
and,  passing  through  the  carved  stone  doorway,  find 
ourselves  in  complete  shade  with  the  sound  of  tinkling 
water  in  the  air — when  the  taps  are  turned  in  the  right 
direction ;  but  in  the  matter  of  water  we  are  economi- 
cal, and  the  cascade  ceased  to  flow  while  the  war 
lasted. 

I  do  not  think  that  it  is  wrong  to  try  to  achieve 
such  contrasts  in  designing  a  range  of  gardens.  The 
effect  is  great  and  it  will  never  appear  to  be  cheap, 
provided  that  it  is  carried  out  naturally.  I  do  not 
think  that  in  a  place  of  the  character  of  that  just 
described  one  should  introduce  such  objects  as  shrubs 
in  tubs,  or  clipped  trees;  nor  should  one  tolerate  the 
appearance  for  the  sake,  perhaps,  of  colour,  of  any 
plant  or  flower  that  might  not  be  found  in  the  natural 
scene  on  which  it  is  founded.  We  all  know  that  in 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  171 

a  rocky  glen  we  need  not  look  for  brilliant  colour, 
therefore  the  introduction  of  anything  striking  in  this 
way  would  be  a  jarring  note.  To  be  sure  I  have  seen 
the  irrepressible  scarlet  geranium  blazing  through 
some  glens  in  the  island  of  St.  Helena;  but  St. 
Helena  is  in  the  tropics,  and  a  tropical  glen  is  not  the 
sort  to  which  we  have  become  accustomed  in  England. 
If  one  has  lived  at  St.  Helena  for  years  and,  on  com- 
ing to  England,  wishes  to  be  constantly  reminded  of 
the  little  island  of  glens  and  gorges  and  that  immense 
"  combe  "  where  James  Town  nestles,  beyond  a  doubt 
that  strange  person  could  not  do  better  than  create  a 
garden  of  gullies  with  the  indigenous  geranium  blaz- 
ing out  of  every  cranny.  But  I  cannot  imagine  any 
one  being  so  anxious  to  perpetuate  a  stay  among  the 
picturesque  loneliness  of  the  place.  I  think  it  ex- 
tremely unlikely  that  if  Napoleon  I.  had  lived  to  re- 
turn to  France,  he  would  have  assimilated  any  portion 
of  the  gardens  of  Versailles  with  those  that  were 
under  his  windows  at  Longwood.  I  could  more  easily 
fancy  his  making  an  honest  attempt  to  transform  the 
ridge  above  Geranium  Valley  on  which  Longwood 
stands — if  there  is  anything  of  that  queer  residence 
left  by  the  white  ants — the  natural  owners  of  the 
island — into  a  memory  of  the  Grand  Trianon,  only 
for  the  ""  maggior  dolore  "  that  would  have  come  to 
him  had  such  an  enterprise  been  successful. 

My  opinion  is  that  a  garden  should  be  such  as  to 
cause  a  visitor  to  exclaim, — 

"  How  natural!  "  rather  than,  "  How  queer!  " 

A  lake  may  be  artificial;  but  it  will  only  appear  so 


172  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

if  its  location  is  artificial;  and,  therefore,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  there  are  countless  mountain  tarns  in 
Scotland  and  Wales,  it  is  safest  for  the  lake  to  be 
made  on  the  lowest  part  of  your  ground.  I  dare  say 
that  a  scientific  man  without  a  conscience  could,  by 
an  arrangement  of  forced  draught  apparatus,  cause 
an  artificial  river  to  flow  uphill  instead  of  down;  but 
though  such  a  stream  would  be  quite  a  pleasing  inci- 
dent of  one  of  the  soirees  of  the  Royal  Society  at 
Burlington  House,  I  am  certain  that  it  would  look 
more  curious  than  natural  if  carried  out  in  an  Eng- 
lish garden  ground.  The  artificial  canals  of  the 
Dutch  gardens  and  of  those  English  gardens  which 
were  made  to  remind  William  III.  of  his  native  land, 
will  look  natural  in  proportion  to  their  artificiality. 
This  is  not  so  hard  a  saying  as  it  may  seem;  I  mean 
to  say  that  if  the  artificial  canal  apes  a  natural  river, 
it  will  look  unnatural.  If  it  aims  at  being  nothing 
but  a  Dutch  canal,  it  will  be  a  very  interesting  part 
of  a  garden — a  Dutch  garden — plan,  and  as  such  it 
will  seem  in  the  right  and  natural  place.  If  a  thing 
occupies  a  natural  place — the  place  where  you  expect 
to  find  it — it  must  be  criticised  from  the  standpoint 
of  its  environment,  so  to  speak,  and  not  on  the  basis 
of  the  canons  that  have  a  general  application. 

And  to  my  mind  the  difference  between  what  is 
right  and  what  is  wrong  in  a  garden  is  not  the  differ- 
ence between  what  is  the  fashion  and  what  is  not  the 
fashion;  but  between  the  appropriate  and  the  inap- 
propriate. A  rectangular  canal  is  quite  right  in  a 
copy  of  the  Dutch  garden;  but  it  would  be  quite 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  173 

wrong  within  sight  of  the  cascades  of  the  Villa  d'Este 
or  any  other  Italian  garden.    Topiary  work  is  quite 
right  in  a  garden  that  is  meant  frankly  to  be  a  copy 
of  one  of  the  clipped  shrubberies  of  the  seventeenth 
and  of  the  eighteenth  century  that  preceded  landscape 
treatment,  but  it  is  utterly  out  of  place  in  a  garden 
where  flowers  grow  according  to  their  own  sweet  will, 
as  in  a  rosery  or  a  herbaceous  border.    A  large  num- 
ber of  people  dislike  what  Mr.  Robinson  calls  "  Vege- 
table Sculpture,"  and  would  not  allow  any  example 
to  have  a  place  on  their  property;  but  although  I 
think  I  might  trust  myself  to  resist  every  temptation 
to  admit  such  an  element  into  a  garden  of  mine,  I 
should  not  hesitate  to  make  a  feature  of  it  if  I  wanted 
to  be  constantly  reminded  of  a  certain  period  of  his- 
tory.   It  would  be  as  unjust  to  blame  me  on  this  ac- 
count as  it  would  be  to  blame  Mr.  Hugh  Thomson 
for  introducing  topiary  into  one  of  his  exquisite  illus- 
trations to  Sir  Roger  de  Cover  ley.    I  would,  I  know, 
take  great  pleasure  in  sitting  for  hours  among  the  pea- 
cocks and  bears  and  cocked  hats  of  the  topiary  sculp- 
tor, because  I  should  feel  myself  in  the  company  of 
Sir  Roger  and  Will  Wimble,  and  I  consider  that  they 
would  be  very  good  company  indeed;  but  I  admit 
that  I  should  prefer  that  that  particular  garden  was 
on  some  one  else's  property.    I  should  spend  a  very 
pleasant  twenty  minutes  in  a  neighbour's — a  near 
neighbour's — reproduction  of  the  grotto  at  Pope's 
Villa  at  Twickenham,  not  because  I  should  be  want- 
ing in  a  legitimate  abhorrence  of  the  thing,  but  be- 
cause I  should  be  able  to  repeople  it  with  several  very 


174  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

pleasant  people — say,  Arbuthnot,  Garth,  and  Mr. 
Henry  Labouchere.  But  heaven  forbid  that  I  should 
spend  years  of  my  life  in  the  construction  of  a  sec- 
ond Pope's  grotto  as  one  of  the  features  of  my  all- 
too-constricted  garden  space. 

One  could  easily  write  a  book  on  "  Illustrating 
Gardens,"  meaning  not  the  art  of  reproducing  illus- 
trations of  gardens,  but  the  art  of  constructing 
gardens  that  would  illustrate  the  lives  of  certain  in- 
teresting people  at  certain  interesting  periods.  The 
educational  value  of  gardens  formed  with  such  an 
intent  would  be  great,  I  am  sure.  I  had  occasion 
some  time  ago  to  act  the  part  of  their  governess  to  my 
little  girls,  and  to  Dorothy's  undisguised  amazement 
I  took  the  class  into  the  garden,  and  not  knowing  how 
to  begin — whether  with  an  inquiry  into  the  economic 
value  of  a  thorough  grounding  in  Conic  Sections,  or 
a  consideration  of  the  circumstances  attending  the 
death  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots — I  have  long  believed 
that  a  modern  coroner's  jury  would  have  found  that 
the  cause  of  death  was  blood  poisoning,  as  there  is  no 
evidence  that  the  fatal  axe  was  aseptic,  not  having 
been  boiled  before  using — I  begged  the  girls  to  walk 
round  with  me. 

:<  This  is  something  quite  new,"  said  Rosamund — 
"  lessons  in  a  garden." 

"  Is  it?  "  I  asked.  "  Did  Miss  Pinkerton  ever  tell 
you  about  a  man  named  Plato?  " 

It  was  generally  admitted  that  if  she  had  ever  done 
so  they  would  have  remembered  the  name. 

I  saw  at  once  that  this  was  a  chance  that  might  not 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  175 

occur  again  for  me  to  recover  my  position.  The  re- 
spect that  I  have  for  Miss  Pinkerton  is  almost  equal 
to  that  I  have  for  Lempriere  or  Dr.  William  Smith. 
I  unfolded  like  a  philactery  the  stores  of  my 
knowledge  on  the  subject  of  the  garden  of  Academus, 
where  Plato  and  his  pupils  were  wont  to  meet  and 
discover — 

"  How  charming  is  divine  philosophy ! 
Not  harsh  and  crabbed  as  some  fools  affirm, 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute," 

and  the  children  learned  for  the  first  time  the  origin 
of  the  name  Academy.  They  were  struck  powerfully 
with  the  idea,  which  they  thought  an  excellent  one, 
of  the  open-air  class. 

This  was  an  honest  attempt  on  my  part  to  illustrate 
something  through  the  medium  of  the  garden;  but 
Miss  Pinkerton's  methods  differed  from  those  of 
Plato:  the  blackboard  was,  in  her  opinion,  the  only 
medium  of  illustration  for  a  properly  organised  class. 

It  was  a  daily  delight  to  me  when  I  lived  in  Ken- 
sington to  believe  that  Addison  must  have  walked 
through  my  garden  when  he  had  that  cottage  on  the 
secluded  Fulham  Road,  far  away  from  the  distract- 
ing noise  and  bustle  of  the  town,  and  went  to  pay  a 
visit  to  his  wife  at  Holland  Park.  Some  of  the  trees 
of  that  garden  must  have  been  planted  even  before 
Addison's  day.  There  was  a  mighty  mulberry-tree — 
a  straggler  from  Melbury  (once  Mulbery)  Road — 
and  this  was  probably  one  of  the  thousands  planted 
by  King  James  when  he  became  possessed  of  that 


176  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

admirable  idea  of  silk  culture  in  England.  Now, 
strange  to  say,  I  could  picture  to  myself  much  more 
vividly  the  presence  of  Addison  in  that  garden  than 
I  can  the  bustle  of  the  old  Castle's  people  within  the 
walls  which  dominate  my  present  ground.  These 
people  occupied  the  Castle  from  century  to  century. 
When  they  first  entered  into  possession  they  wore  the 
costume  of  the  Conquest,  and  no  doubt  they  hon- 
oured the  decrees  of  fashion  as  they  changed  from 
year  to  year;  but  they  faded  away  without  leaving  a 
record  of  any  personality  to  absorb  the  attention  of 
the  centuries,  and  without  such  an  individuality  I 
find  it  impossible  to  realise  the  scene,  except  for  an 
occasional  hour  when  the  moonlight  bathes  the  tower 
of  the  ruined  keep,  and  I  fancy  that  I  hear  the  iron 
tread  of  the  warder  going  his  rounds — I  cannot 
plunge  myself  into  the  spacious  days  of  plate  armour. 
It  is  the  one  Great  Man  or  the  one  Great  Woman 
that  enables  us  nowadays  to  realise  his  or  her  period, 
and  our  Castle  has  unhappily  no  ghost  with  a  name, 
and  one  ghost  with  a  name  is  more  than  an  armed 
host  of  nonentities.  There  is  a  tradition — there  is 
just  a  scrap  of  evidence  to  support  it — that  Dr.  Sam- 
uel Johnson  once  visited  a  house  in  the  High  Street 
and  ate  cherries  in  the  garden.  Every  time  I  have 
visited  that  house  I  have  seen  the  lumbering  Hogarth- 
ian  hero  intent  upon  his  feast,  and  every  time  that  I 
am  in  that  garden  I  hear  the  sound  of  his  "  Why, 

sir " 

I  complained  bitterly  to  Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle 
when  he  was  with  us  in  the  tilt-yard  garden,  that  we 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  177 

had  not  even  the  shadow  of  a  ghost — ghosts  by  the 
hundred,  no  doubt,  but  no  real  ghost  of  some  one  that 
did  things. 

"  You  will  have  to  create  one  for  yourself,"  he  said. 

"  One  must  have  bones  and  flesh  and  blood — plenty 
of  blood,  before  one  can  create  a  ghost,  as  you  well 
know,"  said  I.  "I  have  searched  every  available  spot 
for  a  name  associated  with  the  place,  but  I  have  found 
nothing." 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry;  he'll  turn  up  some  day  when 
you're  not  expecting  him,"  said  my  friend. 

But  I  am  still  awaiting  an  entity  connected  with 
the  Castle,  and  I  swear,  as  did  the  young  Lord 
Hamlet: — 

"  By  Heaven !    I'll  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets  me." 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTEENTH 

OUR  Garden  of  Peace  is  a  Garden  of  Freedom — 
freedom  of  thought,  freedom  of  converse.  In  it  one 
may  cultivate  all  the  flora  of  illiteracy  without  re- 
buke, as  well  as  the  more  delicate,  but  possibly  less 
fragrant  growths  of  literature,  including  those 
hybrids  which  I  suppose  must  give  great  satisfaction 
to  the  cultivators.  We  assert  our  claim  to  talk  about 
whatever  we  please ;  we  will  not  submit  to  be  told  that 
anything  is  out  of  our  reach  as  a  subject:  if  we  can- 
not reach  the  things  that  are  so  defined  we  can  at  least 
make  an  attempt  to  knock  them  down  with  a  bamboo. 
Eventually  we  may  even  discourse  of  flowers;  but 
if  we  do  we  certainly  will  not  adopt  the  horticultural 
standard  of  worth,  which  is  "  of  -^-  commercial 

some 

value."  A  good  many  things  well  worthy  of  a  strict 
avoidance  in  conversation  possess  great  commercial 
value,  and  others  that  we  hold  very  close  to  our  hearts 
are  of  no  more  intrinsic  value  than  a  Victoria  Cross. 
We  have  done  and  shall  do  our  best,  however,  not  to 
make  use  of  the  word  culture,  unless  it  be  in  connec- 
tion with  a  disease.  The  lecturers  on  tropical  diseases 
talk  of  their  "  cholera  cultures  "  and  their  "  yellow- 
fever  cultures  "  and  their  "  malaria  cultures  " ;  but  we 
know  that  there  is  a  more  malignant  growth  than  any 

178 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  179 

of  these :  it  is  spelt  by  its  cultivators  with  the  phonetic 
"  K  "  and  it  has  banished  the  word  that  begins  with  a 
"  c  "  from  the  English  language,  unless,  as  I  say,  in 
referring  to  the  development  of  a  malady.  That  is 
where  victory  may  be  claimed  by  the  vanquished :  the 
beautiful  word  is  banished  for  ever  from  the  English 
literature  in  which  it  once  occupied  an  exalted  place. 
It  is  because  of  the  Freedom  which  we  enjoy  in 
this  Garden  of  Peace  of  ours  that  I  did  not  hesitate 
for  a  moment  to  quote  Tennyson  to  Dorothy  a  few 
days  ago,  when  we  were  chatting  about  Poets'  Gar- 
dens, from  the  "  garden  inclosed  "  of  the  Song  of 
Solomon — the  most  beautiful  ever  depicted — to  that 
of  Maud.  It  requires  some  courage  to  quote  Ten- 
nyson beyond  the  limits  of  our  own  fireside  in  these 
days.  The  days  when  he  was  constantly  quoted  now 
seem  as  the  days  of  Noe,  before  the  Flood — the  flood 
of  the  formless  which  we  are  assured  is  poetry  nowa- 
days. It  is  called  "  The  New  School."  Some  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  years  ago  something  straddled  across 
our  way  through  the  world  labelled  "  New  Art."  Its 
lines  were  founded  upon  those  of  the  crushed  cock- 
roach, and  it  may  have  contributed  to  the  advance  of 
the  temperance  movement;  for  its  tendency  was  cer- 
tainly to  cause  any  inebriate  who  found  a  specimen 
watching  him  wickedly  from  the  mouth  of  a  vase  of 
imitation  pewter  on  the  mantel-shelf  in  a  drawing- 
room,  or  in  the  form  of  a  pendant  in  sealing-wax 
enamel  on  the  neck  of  a  young  woman,  to  pull  him- 
self together  and  sign  anything  in  reason  in  the  direc- 
tion of  abstaining. 


180  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

The  new  poetry  is  the  illiterary  equivalent  of  the 
old  "  New  Art."  It  is  flung  in  our  faces  with  the 
effect  of  a  promiscuous  handful  from  the  bargain 
counter  of  a  draper's  cheap  sale — it  is  a  whiz  of  odd 
lengths  and  queer  colours,  and  has  no  form  but  plenty 
of  flutter.  Poetry  may  not  be  as  a  great  critic  said 
it  was — form  and  form  and  nothing  but  form;  but  it 
certainly  is  not  that  amorphous  stuff  which  is  jerked 
into  many  pages  just  now.  I  have  read  pages  of  it 
in  which  the  writers  seem  to  have  taken  as  a  model 
of  design  one  of  the  long  dedications  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  or  perhaps  the  "  lettering "  on  the  tomb- 
stone of  the  squire  in  a  country  church,  or,  most  likely 
of  all,  the  half  column  of  "  scare  headings  "  in  a  Sun- 
day newspaper  in  one  of  the  Western  States  of 
America. 

It  may  begin  with  a  monosyllable,  and  be  followed 
by  an  Alexandrine;  then  come  a  stuttering  half- 
dozen  unequal  ribbon  lengths,  rather  shop-soiled,  and 
none  of  them  riming;  but  suddenly  we  find  the 
tenth  line  in  rime  with  the  initial  monosyllable 
which  you  have  forgotten.  Then  there  may  come 
three  or  four  rimes  and  as  many  half-rimes — 
f-sharp  instead  of  f — and  then  comes  a  bundle 
of  prosaic  lines  with  the  mark  of  the  scissors  on 
their  ragged  endings;  the  ravellings  are  assumed 
to  adorn  the  close  as  the  fringes  of  long  ago  were 
supposed  to  give  a  high-class  "  finish "  to  the 
green  rep  upholstering  of  the  drawing-room  centre 
ottoman. 

And  yet  alongside  this  sort  of  thing  we  pick  up 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  181 

many  thin  volumes  of  verse  crowded  with  beauty  of 
thought,  of  imagination,  of  passion. 

And  then  what  do  we  find  given  to  us  every  week 
in  Punch  and  several  of  the  illustrated  papers? 
Poem  after  poem  of  the  most  perfect  form  in  rhythm 
and  rimes — faultless  double  rimes  and  triple  and 
quadruple  syllables  all  ringing  far  more  true  than 
any  in  Hudibras  or  the  Ingoldsby  Legends.  Sir 
Owen  Seaman's  verses  surpass  anything  in  the  Eng- 
lish language  for  originality  both  in  phrase  and 
thought,  and  Adrian  Ross  has  shown  himself  the 
equal  of  Gilbert  in  construction.  The  editor  of 
Pimch  has  been  especially  happy  in  his  curry-comb- 
ing of  the  German  ex-Kaiser;  we  do  not  forget  that 
it  was  his  poem  on  the  same  personage,  which  ap- 
peared in  The  World  after  the  celebrated  telegram 
to  Kriiger,  that  gave  him  his  sure  footing  among  the 
elite  of  satirical  humour.  The 


"  Pots- 


Dam  silly," 

was  surely  the  most  finished  sting  that  ever  came  from 
the  tail  of  what  I  venture  to  call  "  vespa-verse." 

I  remember  how,  when  I  came  upon  Barham's 
rime, — 

"  Because  Mephistopheles 
Had  thrown  in  her  face  a  whole  cup  of  hot  coffee-lees," 

I  thought  that  the  limits  of  the  "  triple-bob,"  as  I 
should  like  to  call  it,  had  been  reached.    Years  after- 


182  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

wards  I  found  myself  in  a  fit  of  chuckling  over 
Byron's 

"  Tell  us,  ye  husbands  of  wives  intellectual, 
Now  tell  us  truly,  have  they  not  hen-pecked  you  all?  " 

After  another  lapse  I  found  among  the  carillon  of 
Calverley,— 

"  No,  mine  own,  though  early  forced  to  leave  you, 

Still  my  heart  was  there  where  first  we  met ; 
In  those  '  Lodgings  with  an  ample  sea-view,' 
Which  were,  forty  years  ago,  '  To  Let.' ' 

The  Bab  Ballads  are  full  of  whimsical  rimes ;  but  put 
all  these  that  I  have  named  together  and  you  will  find 
that  they  are  easily  out  jingled  by  Sir  Owen  Seaman. 
The  first  "  copy  of  verses  "  in  Punch  any  week  is  a 
masterpiece  in  its  way,  and  assuredly  some  of  his 
brethren  of  Bouverie  Street  are  not  very  far  behind 
him  in  the  merry  dance  in  which  he  sets  the  pas. 

A  good  many  years  ago — I  think  it  was  shortly 
after  the  capitulation  of  Paris — there  was  a  cor- 
respondence in  The  Graphic  about  the  English  words 
for  which  no  rime  could  be  found.  One  was  "  silver," 
the  other  "  month."  It  was,  I  think,  Burnand  who 
contrived, — 

"  Argentum,  we  know,  is  the  Latin  for  silver, 
And  the  Latin  for  spring  ever  was  and  is  still,  ver." 

But  then  purists  shook  their  heads  and  said  that  Latin 
was  not  English,  and  the  challenge  was  for  English 
rimes. 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  183 

As  for  "  month,"  Mr.  Swinburne  did  not  hesitate 
to  write  a  whole  volume  of  exquisite  poems  to  a  child 
to  bring  in  his  rime  for  month:  it  was  "  millionth  "; 
but  the  metre  was  so  handled  by  the  master  that  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  even  the  most  casual 
reader  to  make  the  word  a  dissyllable.  In  the  same 
volume  he  found  a  rime  for  babe  in  "  astrolabe." 

(With  regard  to  my  spelling  of  the  word  "  rime," 
I  may  here  remark  that  I  have  done  so  for  years.  I 
was  gratified  to  find  my  lead  followed  in  the  Cam- 
bridge History  of  English  Literature.} 

And  all  this  weedy  harvest  of  criticism  and  remi- 
niscence has  come  through  my  quoting  Tennyson 
without  an  apology !  All  that  I  really  had  to  say  was 
that  there  is  no  maker  of  verses  in  England  to-day 
who  has  the  same  mastery  of  metre  as  Tennyson  had. 
It  is  indeed  because  of  the  delicacy  of  his  ear  for 
words  that  so  many  readers  are  disposed  to  think  his 
verse  artificial.  But  there  are  people  who  think  that 
all  art  is  artificial.  (This  is  a  very  imminent  subject 
for  consideration  in  a  garden,  and  it  has  been  con- 
sidered by  great  authorities  in  at  least  two  books,  to 
which  I  may  refer  if  I  go  so  far  as  to  write  some- 
thing about  a  garden  in  these  pages.)  All  that  I 
will  say  about  the  art,  the  artifice,  the  artfulness,  or 
the  artificiality  of  the  pictures  that  Tennyson  brings 
before  my  eyes  through  his  mastery  of  his  medium,  is 
that  I  have  always  placed  a  higher  value  upon  the 
meticulous  than  upon  the  slap-dash  in  every  form  of 
art.  It  was  said  that  the  late  Duke  of  Cambridge 
could  detect  a  speck  of  rust  on  a  sabre  quicker  than 


184  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

any  Commander-in-Chief  that  ever  lived;  but  I  do 
not  therefore  hold  that  he  was  a  greater  soldier  than 
Marlborough.  But  if  Marlborough  could  make  the 
brightness  of  his  sabres  do  the  things  that  he  meant 
them  to  do,  his  victories  were  all  the  more  brilliant. 

I  dare  say  there  are  quite  a  number  of  people  who 
think  that  Edmund  Yates's  doggerel  about  a  brand 
of  Champagne — it  commences  something  like  this,  if 
my  memory  serves  me: — 

"  Dining  with  Bulteen 

Captain  of  Militia, 
Ne'er  was  dinner  seen 
Soupier  or  fishyer " 

quite  equal  to  the  best  that  Calverley  or  Seaman  ever 
wrote,  because  it  has  that  slap-dash  element  about  it 
that  disregards  correct  rimes;  but  I  am  not  among 
those  critics.  Tennyson  does  not  usually  paint  an 
impressionist  picture,  though  he  can  do  so  when  he 
pleases;  he  is  rather  a  pre-Raphaelite ;  but,  however 
he  works,  he  produces  his  picture  and  it  is  a  picture. 
Talk  of  Art  and  Nature — there  never  was  a  poet 
who  reproduced  Nature  with  an  art  so  consummate; 
there  never  was  a  poet  who  used  his  art  so  graphically. 
Of  course  I  am  now  talking  of  Tennyson  at  his  best, 
not  of  Tennyson  of  The  May  Queen,  which  is  cer- 
tainly deficient  enough  in  art  to  please — as  it  has 
pleased — the  despisers  of  the  meticulous,  but  of  Ten- 
nyson in  his  lyrical  mood — of  the  garden-song  in 
Maud,  of  the  echo-song  in  The  Princess — both  dia- 
monds, not  in  the  rough,  but  cut  into  countless  facets 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  185 

— Tennyson  in  The  Passing  of  Arthur,  and  countless 
pages  of  the  Idylls,  Tennyson  of  the  pictorial  sim- 
plicity of  Enoch  Arden  and  the  full  brush  of  Ulysses, 
Tithonus,  Laicretius,  the  battle  glow  of  The  Ballad 
of  the  Revenge,  the  muted  trumpet-notes  of  The 
Defence  of  Lucknow. 

And  yet  through  all  are  those  lowering  lines  which 
somehow  he  would  insist  on  introducing  in  the  wrong 
places  with  infinite  pains!  It  was  as  if  he  took  the 
trouble  to  help  us  up  a  high  marble  staircase  to  the 
cupola  of  a  tower,  and  to  throw  open  before  our  eyes 
a  splendid  landscape,  only  to  trip  us  up  when  we  are 
lost  in  wonder  of  it  all,  and  send  us  headlong  to  the 
dead  earth  below. 

It  was  when  we  were  looking  down  a  gorge  of 
tropical  splendour  in  the  island  of  Dominica  in  the 
West  Indies  opening  a  wide  mouth  to  the  Caribbean, 
that  the  incomparable  lines  from  Enoch  Arden  came 
upon  me  in  the  flash  of  the  crimson-and-blue  wings 
of  a  bird — one  of  the  many  lories,  I  think  it  was — 
that  fled  about  the  wild  masses  of  the  brake  of 
hibiscus,  and  I  said  them  to  Dorothy.  Under  our 
eyes  was  a  tropical  garden  on  each  side  of  the  valley 
— a  riot  of  colour — a  tropical  sunset  laid  at  our  feet 
in  the  tints  of  a  thousand  flowers  down  to  where  the 
countless  palms  of  the  gorge  began  to  mingle  with 
the  yuccas  that  swayed  over  the  sea-cliffs  in  the  blue 
distance. 


The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef, 
The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that  branch'd 


186  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

And  blossom'd  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 

Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave, 

As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 

Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 

A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail. 

No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 

The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 

Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east; 

The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west; 

Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  themselves  in  Heaven, 

The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 

The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise — but  no  sail." 

There  was  the  most  perfect  picture  of  the  tropical 
island. 

Some  months  after  we  had  returned  to  England  I 
found  the  Enoch  Arden  volume  lying  on  the  floor  at 
Dorothy's  feet.  She  was  roseate  with  indignation  as 
I  entered  the  room.  I  paused  for  an  explanation. 

It  came.  She  touched  the  book  with  her  foot — it 
was  a  symbolic  spurn — as  much  as  any  one  with  a 
conscience  could  give  to  a  royal-blue  tooled  morocco 
binding. 

"  How  could  he  do  it? "  she  cried. 

"Do  what?" 

"  Those  two  lines  at  the  end.  Listen  to  this  "  —she 
picked  up  the  book  with  a  sort  of  indignant  snatch : — 

"  *  There  came  so  loud  a  calling  of  the  sea 
That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 
He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms  abroad 
Crying  with  a  loud  voice,  "  A  sail !  a  sail ! 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  187 

I  am  saved,"  and  so  fell  back  and  spoke  no  more. 
So  past  the  strong,  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  little  port 
Had  seldom  seen  a  costlier  fwneral.* 

"  Now  tell  me  if  I  don't  do  well  to  be  angry,"  cried 
Dorothy.  'Those  two  lines — "a  costlier  funeral"! 
He  should  have  given  the  items  in  the  bill  and  said 
what  was  the  name  of  the  undertaker.  Oh,  why 
didn't  you  warn  me  off  that  awful  conclusion?  What 
should  you  say  the  bill  came  to?  Oh,  Alfred,  Lord 
Tennyson ! " 

I  shook  my  head  sadly,  of  course. 

"  He  does  that  sort  of  thing  now  and  then,"  I 
said  sadly.  '  You  remember  the  young  lady  whose 
*  light  blue  eyes '  were  '  tender  over  drowning 
flies  '  ?  and  the  '  oaths,  insult,  filth,  and  monstrous 
blasphemies.' ' 

"  I  do  now,  but  they  are  not  so  bad  as  that  about 
the  costly  funeral.  Why  does  he  do  it — tell  me  that 
— put  me  wise?  " 

"  I  suppose  we  must  all  have  our  bit  of  fun  now 
and  again.  Kean,  when  in  the  middle  of  his  most 
rousing  piece  of  declamation,  used  to  turn  from  his 
spellbound  audience  and  put  out  his  tongue  at  one 
of  the  scene-shifters.  If  you  want  to  be  kept  con- 
stantly at  the  highest  level  you  must  stick  to  Milton." 

There  was  a  pause  before  Dorothy  said,— 

"  I  suppose  so ;  and  yet  was  there  ever  anything 
funnier  than  his  description  of  the  battle  in  heaven?  " 

"  Funny?  Majestic,  you  mean? "  said  I,  deeply 
shocked. 


188  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

:<  Well,  majestically  funny,  if  you  wish.  The  idea 
of  those  *  ethereal  virtues  '  throwing  big  stones  at  one 
another,  and  knowing  all  the  time  that  it  didn't  mat- 
ter whether  they  were  hit  or  not — the  gashes  closed 
like  the  gashes  we  loved  making  with  our  spades  in  the 
stranded  jelly-fish  at  low  tide.  But  I  suppose  you 
will  tell  me  that  Milton  must  have  his  joke  with  the 
rest  of  them.  Oh,  I  wonder  if  all  poetry  is  not  a 
fraud." 

That  is  how  Tennyson  did  for  himself  by  not  know- 
ing where  to  stop.  I  expect  that  what  really  hap- 
pened was  that  when  he  had  written: — 

"  So  past  the  strong,  heroic  soul  away," 

he  found  that  there  was  still  room  for  a  couple  of 
lines  on  the  page  and  he  could  not  bear  to  see  the 
space  wasted. 

And  it  was  not  wasted  either ;  for  I  remember  talk- 
ing to  the  late  Dr.  John  Todhunter,  himself  a  most 
accomplished  poet  and  a  scholarly  critic,  about  the 
"  costlier  funeral "  lines,  and  he  defended  them 
warmly. 

And  the  satisfying  of  Dr.  Todhunter  must  be  re- 
garded as  counting  for  a  good  deal  more  in  the 
balance  against  my  poor  Dorothy's  disapproval. 

Lest  this  chapter  should  appear  aggressively  di- 
gressive in  a  book  that  may  be  fancied  to  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  gardens,  I  may  say  that  while  Alfred, 
Lord  Tennyson  had  a  great  love  for  observing  the 
peculiarities  of  flower  and  plant  growths,  he  must 
have  cared  precious  little  for  the  garden  as  the  solace 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  189 

of  one's  declining  years.  He  did  not  pant  for  it  as 
the  hart  pants  for  the  water-brooks.  He  never  came 
to  think  of  the  hours  spent  out  of  a  garden  as  wasted. 
He  did  not  live  in  his  garden,  nor  did  he  live  for  it. 
That  is  what  amazes  us  in  these  days,  nearly  as  much 
as  the  stories  of  the  feats  of  Mr.  Gladstone  with  the 
axe  of  the  woodcutter.  Not  many  of  us  would  have 
the  heart  to  stand  by  while  a  magnificent  oak  or  syca- 
more is  being  cut  down.  We  would  shrink  from 
such  an  incident  as  we  should  from  an  execution. 
But  forty  years  ago  the  masses  were  ready  to  worship 
the  executioner.  They  used  to  be  admitted  in  crowds 
to  Hawarden  to  watch  the  heroic  old  gentleman  in 
his  shirt-sleeves  and  with  his  braces  hanging  down, 
butchering  a  venerable  elm  in  his  park,  and  when  the 
trunk  crashed  to  the  ground  they  cheered  vocifer- 
ously, and  when  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his 
brow,  they  rushed  forward  to  dip  their  handkerchiefs 
in  the  drops  just  as  men  and  women  tried  to  damp 
their  handkerchiefs  in  the  drippings  of  the  axe  of  the 
headsman,  who,  in  a  stroke,  slew  a  monarch  and  made 
a  martyr,  outside  the  Banqueting  House  in  White- 
hall. 

And  when  the  excursionists  were  cheering  the  hero 
of  Hawarden,  Thomas  Hardy  was  writing  The 
Woodlanders.  Between  Hardy  and  Hawarden  there 
was  certainly  a  great  gulf  fixed.  I  do  not  think  that 
any  poet  ever  wrote  an  elegy  so  affecting  as  the 
chapter  on  the  slaying  of  the  oak  outside  the  house 
of  the  old  man  who  died  of  the  shock.  But  the  scent 
of  the  woodland  clings  to  the  whole  book;  I  have  read 


190  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

it  once  a  year  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

Tennyson  never  showed  that  he  loved  his  garden 
as  Mr.  Hardy  showed  he  loved  his  woodland.  In  the 
many  beautiful  lines  suggesting  his  affection  for  his 
lawns  and  borders  Tennyson  makes  a  reader  feel  that 
his  joy  was  purely  Platonic — sometimes  patronis- 
ingly  Platonic.  It  is  very  far  from  approaching  the 
passion  of  a  lover  for  his  mistress.  One  feels  that  he 
actually  held  that  the  garden  was  made  for  the  poet 
not  the  poet  for  the  garden,  which,  I  need  hardly 
say,  we  all  hold  to  be  a  heresy.  The  union  between 
the  true  garden-lover  and  the  garden  may  be  a 
mesalliance,  but  that  is  better  than  marriage  de  con- 
venance. 

But  to  return  to  the  subject  of  Poets'  Gardens,  we 
agreed  that  the  gardens  of  neither  of  the  poet's 
dwelling-places  were  worth  noticing;  but  they  were 
miracles  of  design  compared  with  that  at  the  red  brick 
villa  where  the  white  buses  stopped  at  Putney — the 
house  where  the  body  of  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne lay  carefully  embalmed  by  his  friend,  Theodore 
Watts-Dunton.  Highly  favoured  visitors  were  occa- 
sionally admitted  to  inspect  the  result  of  the  process 
by  which  the  poet  had  his  palpitations  reduced  to  the 
discreet  beats  of  the  Putney  metronome,  and  visitors 
shook  their  heads  and  said  it  was  a  marvellous  refor- 
mation. So  it  was — a  triumph  of  the  science  of  em- 
balming, not  "  with  spices  and  savour  of  song,"  but 
with  the  savourless  salt  of  True  Friendship.  The 
reformed  poet  was  now  presentable,  but  he  was  no 
longer  a  live  poet:  the  work  of  reformation  had 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  191 

changed  the  man  into  a  mummy — a  most  presentable 
mummy;  and  it  was  understood  that  the  placid  exist- 
ence of  a  mummy  is  esteemed  much  more  than  the 
passionate  rapture  of  an  early  morning  lark,  or  of 
the  nightingale  that  has  a  bad  habit  of  staying  out 
all  night. 

It  is  a  most  unhappy  thing  that  the  first  operation 
of  the  professional  embalmer  is  to  extract  the  brains 
of  his  subject,  and  this  was  done  through  the  medium 
of  a  quill — a  very  suitable  implement  in  the  case  of  a 
writer:  he  has  begun  the  process  himself  long  before 
he  is  stretched  on  the  table  of  the  operator.  Almost 
equally  important  it  is  that  the  subject  should  be 
thoroughly  dried.  Mr.  Swinburne's  true  friend  knew 
his  business:  he  kept  him  perpetually  dry  and  with 
his  brain  atrophied. 

The  last  time  I  saw  the  poet  he  was  on  view  under 
the  desiccating  influence  of  a  biscuit  factory.  He 
looked  very  miserable,  and  I  know  that  I  felt  very 
miserable  observing  the  triumph  of  the  Watts-Dunton 
treatment,  and  remembering  the  day  when  the  glory 
and  glow  of  Songs  before  Sunrise  enwrapt  me  until 
I  felt  that  the  whole  world  would  awaken  when  such 
a  poet  set  the  trumpet  to  his  lips  to  blow! 

Mr.  Watts-Dunton  played  the  part  of  Vivien  to 
that  merle  Merlin,  and  all  the  forest  echoed  "  Fool!  " 

But  it  was  really  a  wonderful  reformation  that  he 
brought  about. 

I  looked  into  the  garden  at  that  Putney  reforma- 
tory many  times.  It  was  one  of  the  genteelest  places 


192  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

I  ever  saw  and  so  handy  for  the  buses.  It  was  called, 
by  one  of  those  flashes  of  inspiration  not  unknown 
in  the  suburbs,  "  The  Pines."  It  might  easily  have 
been  "The  Cedars"  or  "The  Hollies,"  or  even 
"  Laburnum  Villa." 

The  poet  was  carefully  shielded  by  his  true  freind. 
Few  visitors  were  allowed  to  see  him.  The  more 
pushing  were,  however,  met  half-way.  They  were 
permitted  as  a  treat  to  handle  the  knob  of  Mr.  Swin- 
burne's walking-stick. 

Was  it,  I  wonder,  a  Transatlantic  visitor  who 
picked  up  from  the  linoleum  of  the  hall  beside  the 
veneered  mahogany  hat-stand,  and  the  cast-iron  um- 
brella-holder, a  scrap  of  paper  in  the  poet's  hand- 
writing with  the  stanza  of  a  projected  lyric? — 

**  I  am  of  dust  and  of  dryness; 

I  am  weary  of  dryness  and  dust ! 
But  for  my  constitutional  shyness 
I'd  go  on  a  bust." 


CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTEENTH 

I  CAME  across  an  excellent  piece  of  advice  the  other 
day  in  a  commonplace  volume  on  planning  a  garden. 
It  was  in  regard  to  the  place  of  statuary  in  a  garden. 
But  the  writer  is  very  timid  in  this  matter.  He  writes 
as  if  he  hoped  no  one  would  overhear  him  when  he 
says  that  he  has  no  rooted  objection,  although  many 
people  have,  to  a  few  bits  of  statuary ;  but  on  no  plea 
would  he  allow  them  the  freedom  of  the  garden ;  their 
place  should  be  close  to  the  house,  and  they  should  be 
admitted  even  to  that  restricted  territory  only  with 
the  greatest  caution.  On  no  account  should  anything 
of  that  sort  be  allowed  to  put  a  foot  beyond  where  the 
real  garden  begins — the  real  clearly  being  the  herba- 
ceous part,  though  the  formal  is  never  referred  to  as 
the  ideal. 

He  gives  advice  regarding  the  figures  as  does  a 
"  friend  of  the  family  "  when  consulted  about  the  boys 
who  are  inclined  to  be  wild  or  the  girls  who  are  a  bit 
skittish.  No,  no;  one  should  be  very  firm  with 
Hermes ;  from  the  stories  that  somehow  get  about  re- 
garding him,  he  is  certainly  inclined  to  be  fast;  he 
must  not  be  given  a  latch-key;  and  as  for  Artemis — 
well,  it  is  most  likely  only  thoughtlessness  on  her  part, 
but  she  should  not  be  allowed  to  hunt  more  than  two 

193 


194 

days  a  week.  Still,  if  looked  after,  both  Hermy  and 
Arty  will  be  all  right;  above  all  things,  however,  the 
list  of  their  associates  should  be  carefully  revised: 
the  fewer  companions  they  have  the  better  it  will  be 
for  all  concerned. 

Now,  I  venture  to  agree  with  all  this  advice  gen- 
erally. Fond  as  I  am  of  statuary,  whether  stone  or 
lead,  I  am  sure  that  it  is  safest  in  or  about  the  House 
Garden;  and  no  figure  that  I  possess  is  in  any  other 
part  of  my  ground ;  but  this  is  only  because  I  do  not 
possess  a  single  Faun  or  Dryad  or  Daphne.  If  I 
were  lucky  enough  to  have  these,  I  should  know 
where  to  place  them  and  it  would  not  be  in  a  place 
of  formality,  but  just  the  opposite.  They  have  no 
business  with  formalities,  and  would  look  as  incon- 
gruous among  the  divinities  who  seem  quite  happy  on 
pedestals  as  would  Pan  in  modern  evening  dress,  or 
a  Russian  danceuse  in  corsets,  or  a  Polish  in  anything 
at  all. 

If  I  had  a  Pan  I  would  not  be  afraid  to  locate 
him  in  the  densest  part  of  a  shrubbery,  where  only  his 
ears  and  the  grin  between  them  could  be  seen  among 
the  foliage  and  his  goat's  shank  among  the  lower 
branches.  His  effigy  is  shown  in  its  legitimate  place 
in  Gabe's  Picture,  "  Fete  Galante."  That  is  the  cor- 
rect habitat  of  Pan,  and  that  is  where  he  would  be 
shown  in  the  hall  of  the  Natural  History  Museum 
where  every  "  exhibit "  has  its  natural  entourage.  If 
I  had  a  Dryad  and  had  not  a  pond  with  reeds  about 
its  marge,  I  would  make  one  for  her  accommodation, 
for,  except  with  such  surroundings  she  should  not  be 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  195 

seen  in  a  garden.  I  have  a  Daphne,  but  she  is  an 
indoor  one,  being  frailly  made,  and  with  a  year's 
work  of  undercutting,  in  Greek  marble — a  precious 
copy  of  Bernini's  masterpiece.  But  if  I  had  an  out- 
door Daphne,  I  would  not  rest  easy  unless  I  knew 
that  she  was  within  easy  touch  of  her  laurel. 

That  is  why  I  do  not  think  that  any  hard  and  fast 
rule  should  be  laid  down  in  the  matter  of  the  dis- 
posal of  statuary  in  a  garden  ground.  But  on  the 
general  principle  of  "  the  proper  place,"  I  certainly 
am  of  the  opinion  expressed  by  the  writer  to  whom 
I  have  referred — that  this  element  of  interest  and 
beauty  should  be  found  mainly  in  connection  with 
the  stonework  of  the  house.  In  any  part  of  an  Italian 
garden  stone  figures  seem  properly  placed;  because 
so  much  of  that  form  of  garden  is  made  up  of  sculp- 
tured stone;  but  in  the  best  examples  of  the  art  you 
will  find  that  the  statuary  is  placed  with  due  regard 
to  the  "  feature  "  it  is  meant  to  illustrate.  It  is,  in 
fact,  part  of  the  design  and  eminently  decorative,  as 
well  as  being  stimulating  to  the  memory  and  sugges- 
tive to  the  imagination.  In  most  of  the  English  gar- 
dens that  were  planned  and  carried  out  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  stone  and 
lead  figures  that  formed  a  portion  of  the  original 
design  of  the  earlier  days  were  thrown  about  without 
the  least  reference  to  their  fitness  for  the  places  they 
were  forced  to  occupy;  and  the  consequence  was  that 
they  never  seemed  right :  they  seemed  to  have  no  busi- 
ness where  they  were;  hence  the  creation  of  a  preju- 
dice against  such  things.  Happily,  however,  now 


196  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

that  it  is  taken  for  granted  that  garden  design  is  the 
work  of  some  one  who  is  more  of  an  architect  than 
a  horticulturist,  though  capability  in  the  one  direction 
is  intolerable  without  its  complement  in  the  other,  the 
garden  ornamental  is  coming  into  its  own  again ;  and 
the  prices  which  even  ordinary  and  by  no  means 
unique  examples  fetch  under  the  hammer  show  that 
they  are  being  properly  appreciated. 

It  is  mainly  in  public  parks  that  one  finds  the  hor- 
ticultural skill  overbalanced,  not  by  the  architectural, 
but  by  the  "  Parks  Committee  "  of  the  Town  Coun- 
cil; consequently  knowing,  as  every  one  must,  the 
usual  type  of  the  Town  Council  Committee-man,  one 
can  only  look  for  a  display  of  ignorance,  stupidity, 
and  bad  taste,  the  result  of  a  combination  of  the  three 
being  sheer  vulgarity.  The  Town  Council  usually 
have  a  highly  competent  horticulturist,  and  his  part 
of  the  business  is  done  well ;  but  I  have  known  many 
cases  of  the  professional  man  being  overruled  by  a 
vulgar,  conceited  member  of  the  Committee  even  on 
a  professional  point,  such  as  the  arrangement  of 
colour  in  a  bed  of  single  dahlias. 

"  My  missus  abominates  yaller,"  was  enough  to 
veto  a  thoroughly  artistic  scheme  for  a  portion  of  a 
public  garden. 

I  was  in  the  studio  of  a  distinguished  portrait 
painter  in  London  on  what  was  called  "  Show  Sun- 
day " — the  Sunday  previous  to  the  sending  of  the 
pictures  to  the  Hanging  Committee  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  and  there  I  was  'introduced  by  the  artist, 
who  wanted  to  throw  the  fellow  at  somebody's  head,. 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  197 

not  having  anything  handy  that  he  could,  without  dis- 
courtesy, throw  at  the  fellow's  head,  to  a  gentleman 
representing  the  Committee  of  Selection  of  a  move- 
ment in  one  of  the  most  important  towns  in  the  Mid- 
lands, to  present  the  outgoing  Lord  Mayor  with  a 
portrait  of  himself.  With  so  aggressively  blatant  a 
specimen  of  cast-iron  conceit  I  had  never  previously 
been  brought  in  contact.  At  least  three  of  the  por- 
traits on  the  easels  in  the  studio  were  superb.  At 
the  Academy  Exhibition  they  attracted  a  great  deal 
of  attention  and  the  most  laudatory  criticism.  But 
the  delegate  from  the  Midlands  shook  his  head  at 
them  and  gave  a  derisive  snuffle. 

"  Not  up  to  much,"  he  muttered  to  me.  "  I  reckon 
I'll  deal  in  another  shop.  I  ain't  the  sort  as  is  carried 
away  by  the  sound  of  a  name.  I  may  not  be  one  of 
your  crickets;  but  I  know  what  I  like  and  I  know 
what  I  don't  like,  and  these  likenesses  is  them.  Who's 
that  old  cock  with  the  heyglass — I  somehow  seem  to 
feel  that  I've  seen  him  before?" 

I  told  him  that  the  person  whom  he  indicated  was 
Lord  Goschen. 

"  I  guessed  he  was  something  in  that  line — wears 
the  heyglass  to  make  people  fancy  he's  something 
swagger.  Well,  so  long." 

That  was  the  last  we  saw  of  the  delegate.  He  was 
not  one  of  the  horny-handed,  I  found  out;  but  he  had 
some  connection  with  these  art-arbiters;  he  was  the 
owner  of  a  restaurant  that  catered  for  artisans  of  the 
lower  grade. 

I  had  the  curiosity  to  inquire  of  a  friend  living  in 


198  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

the  town  he  represented  so  efficiently,  respecting  the 
commission  for  the  portrait,  and  he  gave  me  the  name 
of  a  flashy  meretricious  painter  whose  work  was 
treated  with  derision  from  Chelsea  to  St.  John's 
Wood.  But  my  informant  added  that  the  Committee 
of  the  Council  were  quite  pleased  with  the  portrait, 
and  had  drunk  the  health  of  the  painter  on  the  day  of 
its  presentation. 

When  a  distinguished  writer  expressed  the  opinion 
that  there  is  safety  in  a  multitude  of  councillors,  he 
certainly  did  not  mean  Town  Councillors.  If  he  did 
he  was  wrong. 

When  on  the  subject  of  the  garden  ornamental,  I 
should  like  to  venture  to  express  my  opinion  that  it  is 
a  mistake  to  fancy  that  it  is  not  possible  to  furnish 
your  grounds  tastefully  and  in  a  way  that  will  add 
immensely  to  their  interest  unless  with  conventional 
objects — in  the  way  of  sundials  or  bird  baths  or  vases 
or  seats.  I  know  that  the  Venetian  well-heads  which 
look  so  effective,  cost  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  so 
does  the  wrought-iron  work  if  it  is  at  all  good,  and 
unless  it  is  good  it  is  not  worth  possessing.  But  if 
you  have  an  uncontrollable  ambition  to  possess  a  well- 
head, why  not  get  the  local  builder  to  construct  one 
for  you,  with  rubble  facing  of  bits  of  stone  of  varying 
colour,  only  asking  a  mason  to  make  a  sandstone 
coping  for  the  rim  and  carve  the  edge?  This  could  be 
done  for  three  or  four  pounds,  and  if  properly  de- 
signed would  make  a  most  interesting  and  suggestive 
ornament. 

There  is  scarcely  a  stonemason's  yard  in  any  town 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  199 

that  will  not  furnish  a  person  of  some  resource  with 
many  bits  of  spoilt  carving  that  could  be  used  to 
advantage  if  the  fault  is  not  obtrusive.  If  you  live 
in  a  brick  villa,  you  may  consider  yourself  fortunate 
in  some  ways;  for  you  need  not  trouble  about  stone- 
work— brick-coloured  terra-cotta  ornaments  will  give 
a  delightful  sense  of  warmth  to  a  garden,  and  these 
may  be  bought  for  very  little  if  you  go  to  the  right 
place  for  them;  and  your  builder's  catalogue  will 
enable  you  to  see  what  an  endless  variety  of  sizes  and 
shapes  there  is  available  in  the  form  of  enrichments 
for  shop  fagades.  Only  a  little  imagination  is  re- 
quired to  allow  of  your  seeing  how  you  can  work  in 
some  of  these  to  advantage. 

But,  in  my  opinion,  nothing  looks  better  in  a  villa 
garden  than  a  few  large  flower-pots  of  what  I  might 
perhaps  call  the  natural  shape.  These  never  seem  out 
of  place  and  never  in  bad  taste.  Several  that  I  have 
seen  have  a  little  enrichment,  and  if  you  get  your 
builder  to  make  up  a  low  brick  pedestal  for  each, 
using  angle  bricks  and  pier  bricks,  you  will  be  out 
of  pocket  to  the  amount  of  a  few  shillings  and  you 
will  have  obtained  an  effect  that  will  never  pall  on 
you.  But  you  must  remember  that  the  pedestal — 
I  should  call  it  the  stand — should  be  no  more  than  a 
foot  high.  I  do  not  advocate  the  employment  of  old 
terra-cotta  drain-pipes  for  anything  in  a  garden. 
Nothing  can  be  made  out  of  drain-pipes  except  a 
drain. 

There  is,  of  course,  no  need  for  any  garden  to  de- 
pend on  ornaments  for  good  effect;  a  garden  is  well 


200  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

furnished  with  its  flowers,  and  you  will  find  great 
pleasure  in  realising  your  ideas  and  your  ideals  if  you 
devote  yourself  to  growth  and  growth  only;  all  that 
I  do  affirm  is  that  your  pleasure  will  be  greatly  in- 
creased if  you  try  by  all  the  means  in  your  power 
to  make  your  garden  worthy  of  the  flowers.  The 
"  love  that  beauty  should  go  beautifully,"  will,  I 
think,  meet  with  its  reward. 

Of  course,  if  you  have  a  large  piece  of  ground  and 
take  my  advice  in  making  several  gardens  instead  of 
one  only,  you  may  make  a  red  garden  of  some  por- 
tion by  using  terra-cotta  freely,  and  I  am  sure  that 
the  effect  would  be  pleasing.  I  have  often  thought 
of  doing  this;  but  somehow  I  was  never  in  possession 
of  a  piece  of  ground  that  would  lend  itself  to  such  a 
treatment,  though  I  have  made  a  free  use  of  terra- 
cotta vases  along  the  rose  border  of  my  house  garden, 
and  I  found  that  the  placing  of  a  large  well-weathered 
Italian  oil- jar  between  the  pillars  of  a  colonnade, 
inserting  a  pot  of  coloured  daisies,  was  very  effective, 
and  intensely  stimulating  to  the  pantomime  erudition 
of  our  visitors,  for  never  did  one  catch  a  glimpse  of 
these  jars  without  crying,  "Hallo!  Ali  Baba."  I 
promised  to  forfeit  a  sum  of  money  equivalent  to  the 
price  of  one  of  the  jars  to  a  member  of  our  family  on 
the  day  when  a  friend  walks  round  the  place  failing 
to  mention  the  name  of  that  wily  Oriental.  It  is  quite 
likely  that  behind  my  back  they  allude  to  the  rose 
colonnade  as  "  The  Ali  Baba  place." 

Before  I  leave  the  subject  of  the  garden  orna- 
mental, I  must  say  a  word  as  to  the  use  of  marble. 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  201 

I  have  seen  in  many  of  those  volumes  of  such  good 
advice  as  will  result,  if  it  is  followed,  in  the  creation 
of  a  thoroughly  conventional  garden,  that  in  England 
the  use  of  marble  out-of-doors  cannot  be  tolerated. 
It  may  pass  muster  in  Italy,  where  there  are  quarries 
of  various  marbles,  but  it  is  quite  unsuited  to  the 
English  climate.  The  material  is  condemned  as  cold, 
and  that  is  the  last  thing  we  want  to  achieve  in  these 
latitudes,  and  it  is  also  "  out  of  place  "  — so  one  book 
assures  me,  but  without  explaining  on  what  grounds 
it  is  so,  an  omission  which  turns  the  assertion  into  a 
begging  of  the  question. 

But  I  am  really  at  a  loss  to  know  why  marble 
should  be  thought  out  of  place  in  England.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  it  is  not  so  considered,  for  in  most 
cemeteries  five  out  of  every  six  tombstones  are  of 
marble,  and  all  the  more  important  pieces  of  statuary 
— the  life-size  angels — I  do  not  know  exactly  what  is 
the  life-size  of  an  angel,  or  whether  the  angel  has  been 
standardised,  so  I  am  compelled  to  assume  the  human 
dimensions — and  the  groups  of  cherubs'  heads  sup- 
ported on  pigeon's  wings  are  almost  invariably  carved 
in  marble.  These  are  the  objects  which  are  sup- 
posed to  endure  for  centuries  (the  worst  of  it  is  that 
they  do),  so  that  the  material  cannot  be  condemned 
on  account  of  its  being  liable  to  disintegrate  under 
English  climatic  conditions:  the  mortality  of  marble 
cannot  cease  the  moment  it  is  brought  into  a  grave- 
yard. 

The  fact  of  its  being  mainly  white  accounts  for  the 
complaint  that  it  conveys  the  impression  of  coldness ; 


202 

but  it  seems  to  me  that  this  is  just  the  impression 
which  people  look  to  acquire  in  some  part  of  a  gar- 
den. How  many  times  has  one  not  heard  the  excla- 
mation from  persons  passing  out  of  the  sunshine  into 
the  grateful  shade, — 

"How  delightfully  cool!" 

The  finest  chimney-pieces  in  the  world  are  of 
white  marble,  and  a  chimney-piece  should  certainly 
not  suggest  cold. 

That  polished  marble  loses  its  gloss  when  it  has 
been  for  some  time  in  the  open  air  is  undeniable.  But 
I  wonder  if  it  is  not  improved  by  the  process,  consid- 
ering that  in  such  a  condition  it  assumes  a  delicate 
gray  hue  in  the  course  of  its  "  weathering  "  and  a 
texture  of  its  own  of  a  much  finer  quality  than 
can  be  found  in  ordinary  Portland,  Bath,  or  Caen 
stones. 

I  really  see  no  reason  why  we  should  be  told  that 
marble — white  marble — is  unsuited  to  an  English 
garden.  In  Italy  we  know  how  beautiful  is  its  ap- 
pearance, and  I  do  not  think  that  any  one  should  be 
sarcastic  in  referring  to  the  fa9ades  of  some  of  the 
mansions  in  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  City.  At  least 
three  of  these  represent  the  best  that  can  be  bought 
combined  with  the  best  that  can  be  thought.  They  do 
not  look  aggressively  ostentatious,  any  more  than 
does  Milan  Cathedral  or  Westminster  Abbey,  or 
Lyons'  restaurants.  Marble  enters  largely  into  the 
"  frontages  "  of  Fifth  Avenue  as  well  as  those  of 
other  abodes  of  the  wealthy  in  some  of  the  cities  of 
the  United  States;  but  we  are  warned  off  its  use  in 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  203 

the  open  air  in  England  by  writers  who  are  not  timid 
in  formulating  canons  of  what  they  call  "  good  taste." 
In  the  facade  of  the  Cathedral  at  Pisa,  there  is  a 
black  column  among  the  gray  ones  which  are  so 
effectively  introduced  in  the  Romanesque  "  blind 
arcading."  I  am  sorry  that  I  forget  what  is  the  tech- 
nical name  for  this  treatment;  but  I  have  always 
thought,  when  feasting  upon  the  architectural  mas- 
terpiece, that  the  master-builder  called  each  of  these 
little  columns  by  the  name  of  one  of  his  supporters, 
but  that  there  was  one  member  of  the  Consistory  who 
was  always  nagging  him,  and  he  determined  to  set  a 
black  mark  opposite  his  name;  and  did  so  very  effec- 
tively by  introducing  the  dark  column,  taking  good 
care  to  let  all  his  friends  know  the  why  and  wherefore 
for  his  freak.  I  can  see  very  plainly  the  grins  of  the 
townsfolk  of  the  period  when  they  saw  what  had  been 
done,  and  hear  the  whispers  of  "  Signor  Antonio  della 
colonna  nigra,"  when  the  grumbler  walked  by.  The 
master-builders  of  those  times  were  merry  fellows, 
and  some  of  them  carried  their  jests — a  few  of  them 
of  doubtful  humour — into  the  interior  of  a  sacred 
building,  as  we  may  see  when  we  inspect  the  carving 
of  the  underneath  woodwork  of  many  a  miserere. 

I  should  like  to  set  down  in  black  and  white  my 
protest  against  the  calumniator  of  marble  for  garden 
ornaments  in  England,  when  we  have  so  splendid  an 
example  of  its  employment  in  the  Queen  Victoria 
Memorial  opposite  Buckingham  Palace — the  noblest 
work  of  this  character  in  England. 

I  should  like  also  to  write  something  scathing  about 


204  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

the  superior  person  who  sneers  at  what  I  have  heard 
called  "  Gin  Palace  Art."  This  person  is  ready  to 
condemn  unreservedly  the  association  of  art  with  the 
public-house,  the  hotel,  and  even  the  tea-room.  Now, 
considering  the  recent  slump  in  real  palaces — the 
bishops  have  begun  calling  their  palaces  houses — I 
think  that  some  gratitude  should  be  shown  to  those 
licensed  persons  who  so  amply  recognise  the  fact  that 
upon  them  devolves  the  responsibiltiy  of  carrying  on 
the  tradition  of  the  Palace.  Long  ago,  in  the  days 
when  there  were  real  Emperors  and  Kings  and 
Popes,  it  was  an  understood  thing  that  a  Royal  Resi- 
dence should  be  a  depository  of  all  the  arts,  and  in 
every  country  except  England,  this  assumption  was 
nobly  -cted  upon.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  mag- 
nificent patronage — that  is  the  right  word,  for  it 
means  protection — of  many  arts  by  the  Church  and 
by  the  State  of  many  countries,  we  should  know  very 
little  about  the  arts  to-day.  But  when  the  men  of 
many  licences  had  the  name  "  gin-palace  "  given  to 
their  edifices — it  was  given  to  them  in  the  same  spirit 
of  obloquy  as  animated  the  scoffers  of  Antioch  when 
they  invented  the  name  "  Christian  " — they  nobly 
resolved  to  act  as  the  Christians  did,  by  trying  to 
live  up  to  their  new  name.  We  see  how  far  success 
has  crowned  their  resolution.  The  representative 
hostelries  of  these  days  go  beyond  the  traditional 
king's  house  which  was  all  glorious  within — they  are 
all  glorious — so  far  as  is  consistent  with  educated 
taste — as  to  their  exterior  as  well.  A  "  tied  house  " 
really  means  nowadays  one  that  is  tied  down  to  the 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  205 

resolution  that  the  best  traditions  of  the  palace  shall 
be  maintained. 

Let  any  one  who  can  remember  what  the  hotels  and 
public-houses  and  eating-houses  of  forty  years  ago 
were  like,  say  if  the  change  that  has  been  brought 
about  is  not  an  improvement  that  may  be  considered 
almost  miraculous.  In  the  old  days  when  a  man  left 
the  zinc  counters  of  one  of  these  places  of  refresh- 
ment, he  was  usually  in  a  condition  that  was  alluded 
to  euphemistically  as  "  elevated  ";  but  nowadays  the 
man  who  pays  a  visit  to  a  properly  equipped  tavern 
is  elevated  in  no  euphemistic  sense.  I  remember  the 
cockroaches  of  the  old  Albion — they  were  so  tame 
that  they  would  eat  out  of  your  hand.  But  if  they 
did,  the  habitues  of  that  tavern  had  their  revenge: 
some  of  these  expert  gastronomes  professed  to  be  able 
to  tell  from  the  flavour  of  the  soup  whether  it  had 
been  seasoned  with  the  cockroaches  of  the  table  or 
the  black  beetles  of  the  kitchen. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  cried  an  indignant 
diner  to  the  waiter — "  I  ordered  portions  for  three, 
and  yet  there  are  only  two  cockroaches." 

I  recollect  in  the  old  days  of  The  Cock  tavern  in 
Fleet  Street  it  was  said  when  the  report  was  cir- 
culated that  it  was  enlarging  its  borders,  that  the 
name  on  the  sign  should  be  appropriately  enlarged 
from  the  Cock  to  the  Cockroach. 

I  heard  an  explanation  given  of  the  toleration 
shown  by  some  of  the  frequenters  of  these  places  to 
the  cockroach  and  the  blackbeetle. 

"  They're  afraid  to  complain,"  said  my  informant, 


206  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

"  lest  it  should  be  thought  that  they  were  seeing  them 
again/3 

I  shall  never  forget  the  awful  dewey  stare  of  a  man 
who  was  facing  a  tumbler  (his  third)  of  hot  punch 
in  the  Cheshire  Cheese,  at  a  mouse  which  made  its  ap- 
pearance only  a  yard  or  two  from  where  we  were 
sitting  shortly  before  closing  time  one  night.  He 
wiped  his  forehead  and  still  stared.  The  aspect  of 
relief  that  he  showed  when  I  made  a  remark  about 
the  tameness  of  the  mouse,  quite  rewarded  me  for 
my  interposition  between  old  acquaintances. 

Having  mentioned  the  Cheshire  Cheese  in  connec- 
tion with  the  transition  period  from  zinc  to  marble — 
marble  is  really  my  theme — I  cannot  resist  the 
temptation  to  refer  to  the  well-preserved  tradition 
of  Dr.  Johnson's  association  with  this  place.  Visi- 
tors were  shown  the  place  where  Dr.  Johnson  was 
wont  to  sit  night  after  night  with  his  friends — nay, 
the  very  chair  that  he  so  fully  occupied  was  on  view; 
and  among  the  most  cherished  memories  of  seeing 
"  Old  London  "  which  people  from  America  acquired, 
was  that  of  being  brought  into  such  close  touch  with 
the  eighteenth  century  by  taking  lunch  in  this  famous 
place. 

"  There  it  was  just  as  it  had  been  in  good  old  Sam- 
uel's day,"  said  a  man  who  knew  all  about  it.  "  Noth- 
ing in  the  dear  old  tavern  had  been  changed  since  his 
day — nothing  whatever — not  even  the  sand  or  the 
sawdust  or  the  smells." 

But  it  so  happens  that  in  the  hundreds  of  volumes 
of  contemporary  Johnsoniana,  not  excepting  Bos- 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  207 

well's  biography,  there  is  no  mention  of  the  name  of 
the  Cheshire  Cheese.  There  is  not  a  shred  of  evidence 
to  support  the  belief  that  Johnson  was  ever  within 
its  doors.  The  furthest  that  conjecture  can  reasona- 
bly go  in  this  connection  is  that  one  has  no  right  to 
assume  that  from  the  list  of  the  taverns  frequented 
by  Johnson  the  name  of  the  Cheshire  Cheese  should 
be  excluded. 

The  fate  of  the  Cheshire  Cheese,  however,  proves 
that  while  tradition  as  an  asset  may  be  of  great  value 
to  such  a  place,  yet  it  has  its  limits.  Just  as  soap 
and  the  "  spellin'  school "  have  done  away  with  the 
romance  of  the  noble  Red  Man,  so  against  the  in- 
fluence of  the  marble  of  modernity,  even  the  full  fla- 
voured aura  of  Dr.  Johnson  was  unable  to  hold  its 
own. 

Thus  I  am  brought  back — not  too  late,  I  hope — to 
my  original  theme,  which  I  think  took  the  form  of 
a  protest  against  the  protestations  of  those  writers 
who  believe  that  marble  should  not  find  its  way  into 
the  ornamentation  of  an  English  garden.  I  have  had 
seats  and  tables  and  vases  and  columns  of  various 
marbles  in  my  House  Garden — I  have  even  had  a 
fountain  basin  and  carved  panels  of  flowers  and  birds 
of  the  same  material — but  although  some  of  them 
show  signs  of  being  affected  by  the  climate,  yet  noth- 
ing has  suffered  in  this  way — on  the  contrary,  I  find 
that  Sicilian  and  "  dove  "  marbles  have  improved  by 
"  weathering." 

I  have  a  large  round  table,  the  top  of  which  is  in- 
laid with  a  variety  of  coloured  marbles,  and  as  I  allow 


208  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

this  to  remain  out-of-doors  during  seven  months  of 
the  year,  I  know  what  sorts  best  withstand  the  rigours 
of  an  English  South  Coast  June;  and  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  that  the  ordinary  "  dove  "  shows  the  least 
sign  of  hardship  at  the  end  of  the  season.  Of  course, 
the  top  has  lost  all  its  polish,  but  the  cost  of  repol- 
ishing  such  a  table  is  not  more  than  ten  shillings — I 
had  another  one  done  some  years  ago,  and  that  is  the 
sum  I  was  charged  for  the  work  by  a  well-known  firm 
on  the  Fulham  Road ;  so  that  if  I  should  get  tired  of 
seeing  it  weather-beaten,  I  can  get  it  restored  without 
impoverishing  the  household. 

And  the  mention  of  this  leads  me  on  to  another 
point  which  should  not  be  lost  sight  of  in  considering 
any  scheme  of  garden  decoration. 

My  Garden  of  Peace  has  never  been  one  of  "  peace 
at  any  price."  I  have  happily  been  compelled  to  give 
the  most  inflexible  attention  to  the  price  of  everything. 
I  like  those  books  on  garden  design  which  tell  you  how 
easily  you  can  get  leaden  figures  and  magnificent 
chased  vases  of  bronze  if  you  wish,  but  perhaps  you 
would  prefer  carved  stone.  You  have  only  to  go  to 
a  well-known  importer  with  a  cheque-book  and  a  con- 
sciousness of  a  workable  bank  balance,  and  the  thing 
is  done.  So  you  will  find  in  the  pre-war  cookery  books 
the  recipe  beginning:  "  Take  two  dozen  new-laid  eggs, 
a  quart  of  cream,  and  a  pint  of  old  brandy,"  etc. 
These  bits  of  advice  make  very  good  reading,  and 
doubtless  may  be  read  with  composure  by  some  peo- 
ple, but  I  am  not  among  their  number. 

That  table,  with  the  twelve  panels  and  a  heavy 


ENTRANCE  TO  THE  ITALIAN   GARDEN 


[Page  20* 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  209 

pedestal  set  on  castors,  cost  me  exactly  half  a  crown 
at  an  auction.  When  new  it  was  probably  bought  for 
twelve  or  fourteen  pounds:  it  is  by  no  means  a  piece 
of  work  of  the  highest  class;  for  a  first-class  inlaid 
table  one  would  have  to  pay  something  like  forty  or 
fifty  pounds:  I  have  seen  one  fetch  £150  at  an  auc- 
tion. But  my  specimen  happened  to  be  the  Lot  1  in 
the  catalogue,  and  people  had  not  begun  to  warm  to 
their  bidding, — marble,  as  I  have  already  said,  is  re- 
garded as  cold.  Another  accident  that  told  against  its 
chances  of  inspiring  a  buyer  was  the  fact  that  the  ped- 
estal wanted  a  screw,  without  which  the  top  would  not 
lie  in  its  place,  and  this  made  people  think  it  imper- 
fect and  incapable  of  being  put  right  except  at  great 
expense.  The  chief  reason  for  its  not  getting  beyond 
the  initial  bid  was,  however,  that  no  one  wanted  it. 
The  mothers,  particularly  those  of  "  the  better  class," 
in  Yardley,  are  lacking  in  imagination.  If  they  want 
a  deal  table  for  a  kitchen,  they  will  pay  fifteen  shill- 
ings for  one,  and  ten  shillings  for  a  slab  of  marble 
to  make  their  pastry  on ;  but  they  would  not  give  half 
a  crown  for  a  marble  table  which  would  serve  for 
kitchen  purposes  a  great  deal  better  than  a  wooden 
one,  and  make  a  baking  slab — it  usually  gets  broken 
within  a  month — unnecessary. 

Why  I  make  so  free  a  use  of  marble  and  advise 
others  to  do  so,  is  not  merely  because  I  admire  it  in 
every  form  and  colour,  but  because  it  can  be  bought 
so  very  cheaply  upon  occasions — infinitely  more  so 
than  Portland  or  Bath  stone.  These  two  rarely  come 
into  the  second-hand  market,  and  in  the  mason's  yard 


210  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

a  slab  is  worth  so  much  a  square  foot  or  a  cubic  foot. 
But  people  are  now  constantly  turning  out  their 
shapeless  marble  mantelpieces  and  getting  wooden 
ones  instead,  and  the  only  person  who  will  buy  the 
former  is  the  general  dealer,  and  the  most  that  he 
will  give  for  one  that  cost  .£10  or  <£12  fifty  years  ago 
is  10s.  or  12s.  I  have  bought  from  dealers  or  build- 
ers possibly  two  dozen  of  these,  never  paying  more 
than  10s.  each  for  the  best — actually  for  the  one  which 
I  know  was  beyond  question  the  best,  I  paid  6s.,  the 
price  at  which  it  was  offered  to  me.  An  exceptionally 
fine  one  of  statuary  marble  with  fluted  columns  and 
beautifully  carved  Corinthian  capitals  and  panels  cost 
me  10s.  This  mantelpiece  was  discarded  through  one 
of  those  funny  blunders  which  enable  one  to  get  a 
bargain.  The  owner  of  the  house  fancied  that  it  was 
a  production  of  1860,  when  it  really  was  a  hundred 
years  earlier.  There  are  marble  mantelpieces  and 
marble  mantelpieces.  Some  fetch  10s.  and  others 
£175.  I  knew  a  dealer  who  bought  a  large  house 
solely  to  acquire  the  five  Bossi  mantelpieces  which  it 
contained.  Occasionally  one  may  pick  up  an  eigh- 
teenth century  crystal  chandelier  which  has  been  dis- 
carded on  the  supposition  that  it  was  one  of  those 
shapeless  and  tasteless  gasaliers  which  delighted  our 
grandmothers  in  the  days  of  rep  and  Berlin  wool. 

But  from  these  confessions  I  hope  no  one  will  be 
so  ungenerous  as  to  fancy  that  my  predilection  for 
marble  is  to  be  accounted  for  only  because  of  the 
chances  of  buying  it  cheaply.  While  I  admit  that 
I  prefer  buying  a  beautiful  thing  for  a  tenth  of  its 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  211 

value,  I  would  certainly  refuse  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  an  ugly  thing  if  it  were  offered  to  me  for 
nothing.  But  the  beauty  of  marble  is  unassailable. 
It  has  been  recognised  in  every  quarter  of  the  world 
for  thousands  of  years.  The  only  question  upon 
which  opinion  is  divided  is  in  regard  to  its  suitability 
to  the  English  climate.  In  this  connection  I  beg 
leave  to  record  my  experience.  I  take  it  for  granted 
that  when  I  allude  to  marble,  it  will  not  be  supposed 
that  I  include  that  soft  gypsum — sulphate  of  lime — 
which  masquerades  under  the  name  of  alabaster,  and 
is  carved  with  the  tools  of  a  woodcarver,  supplemented 
by  a  drill  and  a  file,  in  many  forms  by  Italian  crafts- 
men. This  material  will  last  in  the  open  air  very  little 
longer  than  the  plaster  of  Paris,  by  which  its  numer- 
ous component  parts  are  held  together.  It  is  worth 
nothing.  True  alabaster  is  quite  a  different  substance. 
It  is  carbonate  of  lime  and  disintegrates  very  slowly. 
The  tomb  of  Machiavelli  in  the  Santa  Croce  in  Flor- 
ence is  of  the  true  alabaster,  as  are  all  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  century  sarcophagi  in  the  same  quarter 
of  the  church;  but  none  can  be  said  to  have  suffered 
materially.  It  was  widely  used  in  memorial  tablets 
three  hundred  or  four  hundred  years  ago.  Shakes- 
peare makes  Othello  refer  to  the  sleeping  Desde- 
,  mona, — 

"  That  whiter  skin  of  hers  than  snow, 
And  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster." 

We  know  that  it  was  the  musical  word  "  alabaster  " 
that  found  favour  with  Shakespeare,  just  as  it  was, 


212  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

according  to  Miss  Ethel  Smyth,  Mus.  Doc.,  the  musi- 
cal word  "  Tipperary,"  that  helped  to  make  a  song 
containing  that  word  a  favourite  with  Shakespeare's 
countrymen,  who  have  never  been  found  lacking  in 
appreciation  of  a  musical  word  or  a  rag-time  inanity. 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTEENTH 

» 

AGAIN  may  I  beg  leave  to  express  the  opinion  that 
there  is  no  need  for  any  one  to  depend  upon  con- 
ventional ornaments  with  a  view  to  make  the  garden 
interesting  as  well  as  ornamental.  With  a  little  imagi- 
nation, one  can  introduce  quite  a  number  of  details 
that  are  absolutely  unique.  There  is  nothing  that 
looks  better  than  an  arch  made  out  of  an  old  stone 
doorway.  It  may  be  surmounted  by  a  properly  sup- 
ported shield  carved  with  a  crest  or  a  monogram.  A 
rose  pillar  of  stone  has  a  charming  appearance  at  the 
end  of  a  vista.  The  most  effective  I  have  seen  were 
made  of  artificial  stone,  and  they  cost  very  little. 
Many  of  the  finest  garden  figures  of  the  eighteenth 
century  were  made  of  this  kind  of  cement,  only  in- 
ferior in  many  respects  to  the  modern  "  artificial 
stone."  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  any  material 
that  resists  frost  will  survive  that  comparatively  soft 
stone  work  which  goes  from  bad  to  worse  year  by  year 
in  the  open. 

But  I  do  not  think  that,  while  great  freedom  and 
independence  should  be  shown  in  the  introduction  of 
ornamental  work,  one  should  ever  go  so  far  as  to  con- 
struct in  cold  blood  a  ruin  of  any  sort,  nor  is  there  any 
need,  I  think,  to  try  to  make  a  new  piece  look  antique. 

213 


214  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

But  I  have  actually  known  of  a  figure  being  deprived 
of  one  of  its  arms  in  order  to  increase  its  resemblance 
to  the  Venus  of  the  island  of  Milos!  Such  mutilation 
is  unwarrantable.  I  have  known  of  Doctors  of  Medi- 
cine taking  pains  to  make  their  heads  bald,  in  com- 
pliance with  the  decrepit  notion  that  knowledge  was 
inseparable  from  a  venerable  age.  There  may  be  an 
excuse  for  such  a  proceeding,  though  to  my  mind 
this  posturing  lacks  only  two  letters  to  be  impostur- 
ing;  but  no  excuse  can  be  found  for  breaking  the 
corner  off  a  piece  of  moulding  or  for  treating  a  stone 
figure  with  chemicals  in  order  to  suggest  antiquity. 
Such  dealers  as  possess  a  clientele  worth  maintaining, 
know  that  a  thing  "  in  mint  condition,"  as  they  de- 
scribe it,  is  worth  more  than  a  similar  thing  that  is 
deficient  in  any  way.  That  old  story  about  the  arti- 
ficial worm-eating  will  not  be  credited  by  any  one 
who  is  aware  of  the  fact  that  a  piece  of  woodwork 
showing  signs  of  the  ravages  of  the  wood  moth  is 
practically  worthless.  There  would  be  some  sense  in 
a  story  of  a  man  coming  to  a  dealer  with  a  composi- 
tion to  prevent  worm-holes,  as  they  are  called,  being 
recognised.  Ten  thousand  pounds  would  not  be  too 
much  to  pay  for  a  discovery  that  would  prevent  wood- 
work from  being  devoured  by  this  abominable  thing. 
Surely  some  of  the  Pasteur  professors  should  be  equal 
to  the  task  of  producing  a  serum  by  which  living 
timber  might  be  inoculated  so  as  to  make  it  immune 
to  such  attacks,  or  liable  only  to  the  disease  in  a  mild 
form. 

But  there  are  dealers  in  antiques  whose  dealings 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  215 

are  as  doubtful  as  their  Pentateuch  (according  to 
Bishop  Colenso's  researches).  Heywood  tells  me  that 
he  came  across  such  an  one  in  a  popular  seaside  town 
which  became  a  modern  Hebrew  City  of  Refuge, 
mentioned  in  one  of  the  Mosaic  books,  during  the  air- 
raids. This  person  had  for  sale  a  Highland  claidh- 
eamh-mor — that  is,  I  can  assure  you,  the  proper  way 
to  spell  claymore — which  he  affirmed  had  once  be- 
longed to  the  Young  Pretender.  There  it  was,  with 
his  initials  "  Y.  P.,"  damascened  upon  the  blade,  to 
show  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  it. 

And  Friswell  remembered  hearing  of  another  en- 
terprising trader  in  antiquities  who  had  bought  from 
a  poor  old  captain  of  an  American  whaler  a  sailor's 
jack-knife — Thackeray  called  the  weapon  a  snicker- 
snee— which  bore  on  the  handle  in  plain  letters  the 
name  "  Jonah,"  very  creditably  carved.  Everybody 
knows  that  whales  live  to  a  very  great  age ;  and  it  has 
never  been  suggested  that  there  was  at  any  time  a 
clearing-house  for  whales. 

I  repeat  that  there  is  no  need  for  garden  ornaments 
to  be  ancient;  but  if  one  must  have  such  things,  one 
should  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  them,  even  with- 
out spending  enormous  sums  to  acquire  them.  But 
say  that  one  has  set  one's  heart  upon  having  a  stone 
bench,  which  always  furnishes  a  garden,  no  matter 
what  its  character  may  be.  Well,  I  have  bought  a 
big  stone  slab — it  had  once  been  a  step — for  five  shill- 
ings. I  kept  it  until  I  chanced  to  see  a  damaged  Port- 
land truss  that  had  supported  a  heavy  joist  in  some 
building.  This  I  had  sawn  into  two — there  was  a 


216  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

well-cut  scroll  on  each  side — and  by  placing  these 
bits  in  position  and  laying  my  slab  upon  them,  I  con- 
cocted a  very  imposing  garden  bench  for  thirteen 
shillings.  If  I  had  bought  the  same  already  made  up 
in  the  ordinary  course  of  business,  it  would  have  cost 
me  at  least  £5.  If  I  had  seen  the  thing  in  a  mason's 
yard,  I  would  have  bought  it  at  this  price. 

Again,  I  came  upon  an  old  capital  of  a  pillar  that 
had  once  been  in  an  Early  Norman  church — it  was  in 
the  backyard  of  a  man  from  whom  I  was  buying 
bulbs.  I  told  the  man  that  I  would  like  it,  and  he  said 
he  thought  half  a  crown  was  about  its  value.  I  did 
not  try  to  beat  him  down — one  never  gets  a  bargain 
by  beating  a  tradesman  down — and  I  set  to  work 
rummaging  through  his  premises.  In  ten  minutes  I 
had  discovered  a  second  capital;  and  the  good  fellow 
said  I  might  have  this  one  as  I  had  found  it.  I 
thought  it  better,  however,  to  make  the  transaction 
a  business  one,  so  I  paid  my  second  half-crown  for  it. 
But  two  years  had  passed  before  I  found  two  stone 
shafts  with  an  aged  look,  and  on  these  I  placed  my 
Norman  relics.  They  look  very  well  in  the  embrace 
of  a  Hiawatha  rose  against  a  background  of  old  wall. 
These  are  but  a  few  of  the  "  made-ups  "  which  fur- 
nish my  House  Garden,  not  one  of  which  I  acquired 
in  what  some  people  would  term  the  legitimate  way. 

I  have  a  large  carved  seat  of  Sicilian  marble,  an- 
other of  "  dove  "  marble,  and  three  others  of  carved 
stone,  and  no  one  of  them  was  acquired  by  me  in  a 
complete  state.  Why  should  not  a  man  or  woman 
who  has  some  training  in  art  and  who  has  seen  the 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  217 

best  architectural  things  in  the  world  be  able  to  de- 
sign something  that  will  be  equal  to  the  best  in  a 
stonemason's  yard,  I  should  like  to  know? 

And  then,  what  about  the  pleasure  of  working  out 
such  details — the  pleasure  and  the  profit  of  it?  Surely 
they  count  for  something  in  this  life  of  ours. 

Before  I  forsake  the  fascinating  topic  of  stone- 
work, I  should  like  to  make  a  suggestion  which  I  trust 
will  commend  itself  to  some  of  my  readers.  It  is 
that  of  hanging  appropriate  texts  on  the  walls  of  a 
garden.  I  have  not  attempted  anything  like  this  my- 
self, but  I  shall  certainly  do  it  some  day.  Garden 
texts  exist  in  abundance,  and  to  have  one  carved  upon 
a  simple  block  of  stone  and  inserted  in  a  wall  would, 
I  think,  add  greatly  to  the  interest  of  the  garden.  I 
have  seen  a  couple  of  such  inscriptions  in  a  garden 
near  Florence,  and  I  fancy  that  in  the  Lake  District 
of  England  the  custom  found  favour,  or  Wordsworth 
would  not  have  written  so  many  as  he  did  for  his 
friends.  The  "  lettering  " — the  technical  name  for 
inscriptions — would  run  into  money  if  a  poet  paid  by 
piece-work  were  employed;  unless  he  were  as  consid- 
erate as  the  one  who  did  some  beautiful  tombstone 
poems  and  thought  that, — 

"  Beneath  this  stone  repose  the  bones,  together  with  the 

corp, 

Of  one  who  ere  Death  cut  him  down  was  Thomas  Andrew 
Thorpe," 

was  good;  and  so  it  was;  but  as  the  widow  was  not 
disposed  to  spend  so  much  as  the  "  lettering  "  would 
cost,  he  reduced  his  verse  to: — 


218  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

"  Beneath  this  stone  there  lies  the  corp 
Of  Mr.  Thomas  Andrew  Thorpe." 

Still  the  widow  shook  her  head  and  begged  him  to 
give  the  question  of  a  further  curtailment  his  con- 
sideration. He  did  so,  and  produced, — 

"  Here  lies  the  corp 
Of  T.  A.  Thorpe." 

This  was  a  move  in  the  right  direction,  the  heart- 
broken relict  thought;  still  if  the  sentiment  was  so 
compressible,  it  might  be  further  reduced.  Flowery 
language  was  all  very  well,  but  was  it  worth  the  extra 
money?  The  result  of  her  appeal  was, — 

"  Thorpe's 
Corpse." 

I  found  some  perfect  garden  texts  in  every  volume 
I  glanced  through,  from  Marlowe  to  Masefield. 

Yes,  I  shall  certainly  revive  on  some  of  my  walls, 
between  the  tufts  of  snapdragon,  a  delightful  prac- 
tice, feeling  assured  that  the  crop  will  flower  in  many 
directions.  The  search  for  the  neatest  lines  will  of 
itself  be  stimulating. 

But  among  the  suitable  objects  for  the  embellish- 
ment of  any  form  of  garden,  I  should  not  recommend 
any  form  of  dog.  We  have  not  completed  our  repair- 
ing of  one  of  our  borders  since  a  visit  was  paid  to  us 
quite  unexpectedly  by  a  young  foxhound  that  was 
being  "  walked  "  by  a  dealer  in  horses,  who  has  stables 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  219 

a  little  distance  beyond  the  Castle.  Our  third  little 
girl,  Francie  by  name,  has  an  overwhelming  sympathy 
for  animals  in  captivity,  especially  dogs,  and  the  fact 
that  I  do  not  keep  any  since  I  had  an  unhappy  ex- 
perience with  a  mastiff  several  years  ago,  is  not  a 
barrier  to  her  friendship  with  "  Mongrel,  puppy, 
whelp,  or  hound,  and  curs  of  low  degree  "  that  are 
freely  cursed  by  motorists  in  the  High  Street;  for  in 
Yardley  dogs  have  trained  themselves  to  sleep  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  on  warm  summer  days.  Almost 
every  afternoon  Francie  returns  from  her  walks 
abroad  in  the  company  of  two  or  three  of  her  bor- 
rowed dogs;  and  if  she  is  at  all  past  her  time  in  set- 
ting out  from  home,  one  of  them  comes  up  to  make 
inquiries  as  to  the  cause  of  the  delay. 

Some  months  ago  the  foxhound,  Daffodil,  who  gal- 
lantly prefers  being  walked  by  a  little  girl,  even 
though  she  carries  no  whip,  rather  than  by  a  horsey 
man  who  is  never  without  a  serviceable  crop  with  a 
lash,  personally  conducted  a  party  of  three  to  find 
out  if  anything  serious  had  happened  to  Francie ;  and 
in  order  to  show  off  before  the  others,  he  took  advan- 
tage of  the  garden  gate  having  been  left  open  to  enter 
and  relieve  his  anxiety.  He  seemed  to  have  done  a 
good  deal  of  looking  round  before  he  was  satisfied 
that  there  was  no  immediate  cause  for  alarm,  and  in 
the  course  of  his  stroll  he  transformed  the  border, 
adapting  it  to  an  impromptu  design  of  his  own — not 
without  merit,  if  his  aim  was  a  reproduction  of  a 
prairie. 

After  an  industrious  five  minutes  he  received  some 


220  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

token  of  the  gardener's  disapproval,  and  we  hope 
that  in  a  few  months  the  end  of  our  work  of  restora- 
tion will  be  well  in  sight. 

But  Nemesis  was  nearer  at  hand  than  that  horti- 
cultural hound  dreamt  of.  Yesterday  Francie  ap- 
peared in  tears  after  her  walk;  and  this  is  the  story 
of  illce  lachrymce:  It  appears  that  the  days  of  Daf- 
fodil's "  walking  "  were  over,  and  he  was  given  an 
honourable  place  in  the  hunt  kennels.  The  master 
and  a  huntsman  now  and  again  take  the  full  pack 
from  their  home  to  the  Downs  for  an  outing  and 
bring  them  through  the  town  on  their  way  back.  Yes- 
terday such  a  route-march  took  place  and  the  hounds 
went  streaming  in  open  order  down  the  street.  No 
contretemps  seemed  likely  to  mar  the  success  of  the 
outing;  but  unhappily  Daffodil  had  not  learned  to 
the  last  page  the  discipline  of  the  kennels,  and  when 
at  the  wrong  moment  Francie  came  out  of  the  con- 
fectioner's shop,  she  was  spied  by  her  old  friend,  and 
he  made  a  rush  in  front  of  the  huntsman's  horse  to 
the  little  girl,  nearly  knocking  her  down  in  the  ex- 
uberance of  his  greeting  of  her. 

Alas!  there  was  "greeting"  in  the  Scotch  mean- 
ing of  the  word,  when  Daffodil  ignored  the  command 
of  the  huntsman  and  had  only  eaten  five  of  the  choco- 
lates and  an  inch  or  two  of  the  paper  bag,  when  the 
hailstorm  fell  on  him.  .  .  . 

"  But  once  he  looked  back  before  he  reached  the 
pack,"  said  Francie  between  her  sobs — "  he  looked 
back  at  me — you  see  he  had  not  time  to  say  '  good- 
bye,' that  horrid  huntsman  was  so  quick  with  his  lash, 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  221 

and  I  knew  that  that  was  why  poor  Daffy  looked  back 
— to  say  '  good-bye  ' — just  his  old  look.  Oh,  I'll  save 
up  my  birthday  money  next  week  and  buy  him.  Poor 
Daff !  Of  course  he  knew  me,  and  I  knew  him — I  saw 
him  through  Miss  Richardson's  window  above  the 
doughnut  tray — I  knew  him  among  all  the  others  in 
the  pack." 

Dorothy  comforted  her,  and  she  became  sufficiently 
herself  again  to  be  able  to  eat  the  remainder  of  the 
half-pound  of  chocolates,  forgetting,  in  the  excitement 
of  the  moment,  to  retain  their  share  for  her  sisters. 

When  they  found  this  out,  their  expressions  of  sym- 
pathy for  the  cruel  fate  that  fell  upon  Daffodil  were 
turned  in  another  direction. 

They  did  not  make  any  allowance  for  the  momen- 
tary thoughtlessness  due  to  an  emotional  nature. 

The  question  of  the  purchase  of  the  young  hound 
has  not  yet  been  referred  to  me;  but  without  ventur- 
ing too  far  in  prejudging  the  matter,  I  think  I  may 
say  that  that  transaction  will  not  be  consummated. 
The  first  of  whatever  inscriptions  I  may  some  day 
put  upon  my  garden  wall  will  be  one  in  Greek: — 


01    KVVCS. 


CHAPTER  THE  NINETEENTH 

DOROTHY  and  I  were  having  a  chat  about  some  de- 
signs in  Treillage  when  Friswell  sauntered  into  the 
garden,  bringing  with  him  a  fine  book  on  the  Influence 
of  Cimabue  on  the  later  work  of  Andrea  del  Castagno. 
He  had  promised  to  lend  it  to  me,  when  in  a  moment 
of  abstraction  I  had  professed  an  interest  in  the 
subject. 

Dorothy  showed  him  her  sketches  of  the  new 
scheme,  explaining  that  it  was  to  act  as  a  screen  for 
fig-tree  corner,  where  the  material  for  a  bonfire  had 
been  collecting  for  some  time  in  view  of  the  Peace 
that  we  saw  in  our  visions  of  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth  long  promised  to  the  sons  of  men. 

Friswell  was  good  enough  to  approve  of  the  de- 
signs. He  said  he  thought  that  Treillage  would  come 
into  its  own  again  before  long.  He  always  liked  it, 
because  somehow  it  made  him  think  of  the  Bible. 

I  did  not  like  that.  I  shun  topics  that  induce 
thoughts  of  the  Bible  in  Friswell's  brain.  He  is  at 
his  worst  when  thinking  and  expressing  his  thoughts 
on  the  Bible,  and  the  worst  of  his  worst  is  that  it  is 
just  then  he  makes  himself  interesting. 

But  how  on  earth  Treillage  and  the  Bible  should 
become  connected  in  any  man's  mind  would  pass  the 

222 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  223 

wit  of  man  to  explain.  But  when  the  appearance  of 
my  Temple  compelled  Friswell  to  think  of  Oxford 
Street,  London,  W.,  when  his  errant  memory  was 
carrying  him  on  to  the  Princess's  Theatre,  on  whose 
stage  a  cardboard  thing  was  built — about  as  like  my 
Temple  as  the  late  Temple  of  the  Archdiocese  of  Can- 
terbury was  like  the  late  Dr.  Parker  of  the  City 
Temple. 

"  I  don't  recollect  any  direct  or  mystical  reference 
to  Treillage  in  the  Book,"  said  I,  with  a  leaning  to- 
ward sarcasm  in  my  tone  of  voice.  "  Perhaps  you 
saw  something  of  the  kind  on  or  near  the  premises 
of  the  Bible  Society." 

"  It  couldn't  be  something  in  a  theatre  again,"  sug- 
gested Dorothy. 

"  I  believe  it  was  on  a  garden  wall  in  Damascus, 
but  I'm  not  quite  sure,"  said  he  thoughtfully.  "  Da- 
mascus is  a  garden  city  in  itself.  Thank  Heaven 
it  is  safe  for  some  centuries  more.  That  ex- All  High- 
est who  had  designs  on  it  would  fain  have  made  it 
Potsdamascus." 

"  He  would  have  done  his  devil  best,  pulling  down 
the  Treillage  you  saw  there,  because  it  was  too  French. 
Don't  you  think,  Friswell,  that  you  should  try  to 
achieve  some  sort  of  Treillage  for  your  memory  ?  You 
are  constantly  sending  out  shoots  that  come  to  noth- 
ing for  want  of  something  firm  to  cling  to." 

"  Not  a  bad  notion,  by  any  means,"  said  he.  "  But 
it  has  been  tried  by  scores  of  experts  on  the  science 
of — I  forget  the  name  of  the  science:  I  only  know 
that  its  first  two  letters  are  mn." 


224  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

"  Mnemonics,"  said  Dorothy  kindly. 

"  What  a  memory  you  have!  "  cried  Friswell.  "  A 
memory  for  the  word  that  means  memory.  I  think 
most  of  the  artificial  memories  or  helps  to  memory  are 
ridiculous.  They  tell  you  that  if  you  wish  to  remem- 
ber one  thing  you  must  be  prepared  to  recollect  half 
a  dozen  other  things — you  are  to  be  led  to  your  des- 
tination by  a  range  of  sign-posts." 

"  I  shouldn't  object  to  the  sign-posts  providing  that 
the  destination  was  worth  arriving  at,"  said  I.  "  But 
if  it's  only  the  front  row  of  the  dress  circle  at  the 
Princess's  Theatre,  Oxford  Street,  London,  West — " 

"  Or  Damascus,  Middle  East,"  he  put  in,  when  I 
paused  to  breathe.  '  Yes,  I  agree  with  you ;  but  after 
all,  it  wasn't  Damascus,  but  only  the  General's  house 
at  Gibraltar." 

"  Have  mercy  on  our  frail  systems,  Friswell,"  I 
cried.  '  We  are  but  men,  are  we ! '  as  Swinburne 
lilts.  Think  of  our  poor  heads.  Another  such  abrupt 
memory-post  and  we  are  undone.  How  is't  with  you, 
my  Dorothy  ? " 

"  I  seek  a  guiding  hand,"  said  she.  "  Come,  Mr. 
Friswell;  tell  us  how  a  General  at  Gib,  suggested, 
the  Bible  to  you." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  obvious,  does  it?  "  said  he.  "  But 
it  so  happened  that  the  noblest  traditions  of  the  Corps 
of  Sappers  was  maintained  by  the  General  at  Gib,  in 
my  day.  He  was  mad,  married,  and  a  Methodist. 
He  had  been  an  intimate  friend  and  comrade  of  Gor- 
don, and  he  invited  subscriptions  from  all  the  garrison 
for  the  Palestine  Exploration  Fund.  He  gave 


A   GLIMPSE   OF  THE   ITALIAN  GARDEX 


[Pag2  224 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  225 

monthly  lectures  on  the  Tabernacle  in  the  Wilder- 
ness, and  at  every  recurring  Feast  of  Tabernacles  he 
had  the  elaborate  trellis  that  compassed  about  his 
house,  hung  with  branches  of  Mosaic  trees.  That's 
the  connection — as  easily  obvious  as  the  origin  of 
sin." 

"  Just  about  the  same,"  said  I.  "  Your  chain  of 
sign-posts  is  complete:  Treillage — General — Gibral- 
tar— Gordon — Gospel.  That  is  how  you  are  irresis- 
tibly drawn  to  think  of  the  Bible  when  you  see  a  clem- 
atis climbing  up  a  trellis." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Dorothy,  "  you  know  that  I  don't 
approve  of  any  attempt  at  jesting  on  the  subject  of 
the  Bible." 

"  I  wasn't  jesting — only  alliterative,"  said  I. 
"  Surely  alliteration  is  not  jocular." 

"  It's  on  the  border,"  she  replied  with  a  nod. 

"  The  Bible  is  all  right  if  you  are  only  content  not 
to  take  it  too  seriously,  my  dear  lady,"  said  Friswell. 
"  It  does  not  discourage  simple  humour — on  the  con- 
trary, it  contains  many  examples  of  the  Oriental  idea 
of  fun." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Friswell!  You  will  be  saying  next  that 
it  is  full  of  puns,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  I  know  of  one,  and  it  served  as  the  foundation 
of  the  Christian  Church,"  said  he. 

"  My  dear  Friswell,  are  you  not  going  too  far? " 

"  Not  a  step.  The  choosing  of  Peter  is  the  founda- 
tion of  your  Church,  and  the  authority  assumed  by 
its  priests.  Simon  Bar jonah,  nicknamed  Peter,  is  one 
of  the  most  convincingly  real  characters  to  be  found 


226  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

in  any  book,  sacred  or  profane.  How  any  one  can 
read  his  record  and  doubt  the  inspiration  of  the  Gos- 
pels is  beyond  me.  I  have  been  studying  Simon  Bar- 
jonah  for  many  years — a  conceited  braggart  and  a 
coward — a  blasphemer — maudlin !  After  he  had  been 
cursing  and  swearing  in  his  denial  of  his  Master,  he 
went  out  and  wept  bitterly.  Yes,  but  he  wasn't  man 
enough  to  stand  by  the  Son  of  God — he  was  not  even 
man  enough  to  go  to  the  nearest  tree  and  hang  him- 
self. Judas  Iscariot  was  a  nobler  character  than 
Simon  Barjonah,  nicknamed  Peter." 

"  And  what  does  all  this  mean,  Mr.  Friswell  ?  " 

"  It  means  that  it  is  fortunate  that  Truth  is  not 
dependent  upon  the  truth  of  its  exponents  or  affected 
by  their  falseness,"  said  he,  and  so  took  his  departure. 

We  went  on  with  our  consideration  of  our  Treil- 
lage — after  a  considerable  silence.  But  when  a  silence 
comes  between  Dorothy  and  me  it  does  not  take  the 
form  of  an  impenetrable  wall,  nor  yet  that  of  a  yew 
hedge  with  gaps  in  it;  but  rather  that  of  a  grateful 
screen  of  sweet-scented  honeysuckle.  It  is  the  silence 
within  a  bower  of  white  clematis — the  silence  of 
"  heaven's  ebon  vault  studded  with  stars  unutterably 
bright " — the  silence  of  the  stars  which  is  an  unheard 
melody  to  such  as  have  ears  to  hear. 

"  Yes,"  said  I  at  last,  "  I  am  sure  that  you  are 
right:  an  oval  centre  from  which  the  laths  radiate — 
that  shall  be  our  new  trellis." 

And  so  it  was. 

Our  life  in  the  Garden  of  Peace  is,  you  will  per- 
ceive, something  of  what  the  catalogues  term  "  of 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  227 

rampant  growth."  It  is  as  digressive  as  a  wild  con- 
volvulus. I  perceive  this  now  that  I  have  taken  to 
writing  about  it.  It  is  not  literary,  but  discursive.  It 
throws  out,  it  may  be,  the  slenderest  of  tendrils  in  one 
direction ;  but  this  "  between  the  bud  and  blossom," 
sometimes  flies  off  in  another,  and  the  effect  of  the 
whole  is  pleasantly  unforeseen. 

It  is  about  time  that  we  had  a  firm  trellis  for  the 
truant  tendrils. 

And  so  I  will  discourse  upon  Treillage  as  a  feature 
of  the  garden. 

Its  effect  seems  to  have  been  lost  sight  of  for  a  long 
time,  but  happily  within  recent  years  its  value  as  an 
auxiliary  to  decoration  is  being  recognised.  I  have 
seen  lovely  bits  in  France  as  well  as  in  Italy.  It  is  one 
of  the  oldest  imitations  of  Nature  to  be  found  in  con- 
nection with  garden-making,  and  to  me  it  represents 
exactly  what  place  art  should  take  in  that  modifica- 
tion of  Nature  which  we  call  a  garden.  We  want 
everything  that  grows  to  be  seen  to  the  greatest  ad- 
vantage. Nature  grows  rampant  climbers,  and  if  we 
allowed  them  to  continue  rampageous,  we  should  have 
a  jungle  instead  of  a  garden;  so  we  agree  to  give  her 
a  helping  hand  by  offering  her  aspiring  children  some- 
thing pleasant  to  cling  to  from  the  first  hour  of  their 
sending  forth  grasping  fingers  in  search  of  the  right 
ladder  for  their  ascent.  A  trellis  is  like  a  family  liv- 
ing: it  provides  a  decorative  career  for  at  least  one 
member  of  the  family. 

The  usual  trellis-work,  as  it  is  familiarly  called, 
has  the  merit  of  being  cheap — just  now  it  is  more 


228  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

than  twice  the  price  that  it  was  five  years  ago;  but 
still  it  does  not  run  into  a  great  deal  of  money  unless 
it  is  used  riotously,  and  this,  let  me  say,  is  the  very 
worst  way  in  which  it  could  be  adapted  to  its  pur- 
pose. To  fix  it  all  along  the  face  of  a  wall  of  perhaps 
forty  feet  in  length  is  to  force  it  to  do  more  than  it 
should  be  asked  to  do.  The  wall  is  capable  of  sup- 
porting a  climbing  plant  without  artificial  aid.  But 
if  the  wall  is  unsightly,  it  were  best  hidden,  and  the 
eye  can  bear  a  considerable  length  of  simple  trellis 
without  becoming  weary.  In  this  connection,  how- 
ever, my  experience  forces  me  to  believe  that  one 
should  shun  the  "  extending  "  form  of  lattice-shaped 
work,  but  choose  the  square-mesh  pattern. 

This,  however,  is  only  Treillage  in  its  elementary 
form.  If  one  wishes  to  have  a  truly  effective  screen 
offering  a  number  of  exquisite  outlines  for  the  entwin- 
ing of  some  of  the  loveliest  things  that  grow,  one  must 
go  further  in  one's  choice  than  the  simple  diagonals 
and  rectagonals — the  simple  verticals  and  horizontals. 
The  moment  that  curves  are  introduced  one  gets  into 
a  new  field  of  charm,  and  I  know  of  no  means  of  gain- 
ing better  effects  than  by  elaborating  this  form  of 
joinery  as  the  French  did  two  centuries  ago,  before 
the  discovery  was  made  that  every  form  of  art  in  a 
garden  is  inartistic.  But  possibly  if  the  French  treil- 
lageurs — for  the  art  had  many  professors — had  been  a 
little  more  modest  in  their  claims  the  landscapests 
would  not  have  succeeded  in  their  rebellion.  But  the 
treillageurs  protested  against  such  beautiful  designs 
as  they  turned  out  being  obscured  by  plants  clamber- 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  229 

ing  over  them,  and  they  offered  in  exchange  repousse 
metal  foliage,  affirming  that  this  was  incomparably 
superior  to  a  natural  growth.  Ordinary  people  re- 
fused to  admit  so  ridiculous  a  claim,  and  a  cloud  came 
over  the  prospects  of  these  artists.  Recently,  however, 
with  a  truer  rapprochement  between  the  "  schools  " 
of  garden  design,  I  find  several  catalogues  of  eminent 
firms  illustrating  their  reproductions  of  some  beauti- 
ful French  and  Dutch  work. 

Personally,  I  have  a  furtive  sympathy  with  the 
conceited  Frenchmen.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  would 
be  a  great  shame  to  allow  the  growths  upon  a  fine 
piece  of  Treillage  to  become  so  gross  as  to  conceal 
all  the  design  of  the  joinery.  Therefore  I  hold  that 
such  ambitious  climbers  as  Dorothy  Perkins  or  Crim- 
son Rambler  should  be  provided  with  an  unsightly 
wall  and  bade  to  make  it  sightly,  and  that  to  the  more 
graceful  and  less  distracting  clematis  should  any  first- 
class  woodwork  be  assigned.  This  scheme  will  give 
both  sides  a  chance  in  the  summer,  and  in  the  winter 
there  will  be  before  our  eyes  a  beautiful  thing  to  look 
upon,  even  though  it  is  no  longer  supporting  a  plant, 
and  so  fulfilling  the  ostensible  object  of  its  existence. 

There  should  be  no  limit  to  the  decorative  possi- 
bilities of  the  Treillage  lath.  A  whole  building  can 
be  constructed  on  this  basis.  I  have  seen  two  or  three 
very  successful  attempts  in  such  a  direction  in  Hol- 
land ;  and  quite  enchanting  did  they  seem,  overclam- 
bered  by  Dutch  honeysuckle.  I  learned  that  all  were 
copied  from  eighteenth  century  designs.  I  saw  an- 
other Dutch  design  in  an  English  garden  in  the  North. 


230  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

It  took  the  form  of  a  sheltered  and  canopied  seat.  It 
had  a  round  tower  at  each  side  and  a  gracefully  curved 
back.  The  "  mesh  "  used  in  this  little  masterpiece 
was  one  of  four  inches.  It  was  painted  in  a  tint  that 
looks  best  of  all  in  garden  word — the  gray  of  the 
echeveria  glauca,  and  the  blooms  of  a  beautiful  Aglaia 
rose  were  playing  hide-and-seek  among  the  laths  of 
the  roof.  I  see  no  reason  why  hollow  pillars  for  roses 
should  not  be  made  on  the  Treillage  principle.  I  have 
seen  such  pillars  supporting  the  canopied  roof  of  more 
than  one  balcony  in  front  of  houses  in  Brighton  and 
Hove.  I  fancy  that  at  one  time  these  were  fashion- 
able in  such  places.  In  his  fine  work  entitled  The 
English  Home  from  Charles  I.  to  George  IV.,  Mr.  J. 
Alfred  Gotch  gives  two  illustrations  of  Treillage 
adapted  to  balconies. 

But  to  my  mind,  its  most  effective  adaptation  is  in 
association  with  a  pergola,  especially  if  near  the  house. 
To  be  sure,  if  the  space  to  be  filled  is  considerable,  the 
work  for  both  sides  would  be  somewhat  expensive; 
but  then  the  cost  of  such  things  is  very  elastic;  it  is 
wholly  dependent  upon  the  degrees  of  elaboration  in 
the  design.  But  in  certain  situations  a  pergola  built 
up  in  this  way  may  be  made  to  do  duty  as  an  ante- 
room or  a  loggia,  and  as  such  it  gives  a  good  return 
for  an  expenditure  of  money ;  and  if  constructed  with 
substantial  uprights — I  should  recommend  the  em- 
ployment of  an  iron  core  an  inch  in  diameter  for  these, 
covered,  I  need  hardly  say,  with  the  laths — and 
painted  every  second  year,  the  structure  should  last 
for  half  a  century.  Sir  Laurence  Alma-Tadema  car- 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  231 

ried  out  a  marvellous  scheme  of  this  type  at  his  house 
in  St.  John's  Wood.  It  was  on  a  Dutch  plan,  but 
was  not  a  copy  of  any  existing  arrangement  of  gar- 
dens. I  happen  to  know  that  the  design  was  elabor- 
ated by  himself  and  his  wife  on  their  leaving  his  first 
St.  John's  Wood  home:  it  was  a  model  of  what  may 
be  called  "  Vhaut  Treillage." 

Once  again  I  would  venture  to  point  out  the  advan- 
tage of  having  a  handsome  thing  to  look  at  during 
the  winter  months  when  an  ordinary  pergola  looks 
its  worst. 

Regarding  pergolas  in  general  a  good  deal  might 
be  written.  Their  popularity  in  England  just  now 
is  well  deserved.  There  is  scarcely  a  garden  of  any 
dimensions  that  is  reckoned  complete  unless  it  en- 
closes one  within  its  walls.  A  more  admirable  means 
of  dividing  a  ground  space  so  as  to  make  two  gardens 
of  different  types,  could  scarcely  be  devised,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  a  yew  or  box  growth  of  hedge ;  nor  could  one 
imagine  a  more  interesting  way  of  passing  from  the 
house  to  the  garden  than  beneath  such  a  roof  of  roses. 
In  this  case  it  should  play  the  part  of  one  of  those 
"  vistas  "  which  were  regarded  as  indispensable  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  It  should  have  a  legitimate  en- 
trance and  it  should  not  stop  abruptly.  If  the  ex- 
igencies of  space  make  for  such  abruptness,  not  a  mo- 
ment's delay  there  should  be  in  the  planting  of  a  large 
climbing  shrub  on  each  side  of  the  exit  so  as  to  em- 
bower it,  so  to  speak.  A  vase  or  a  short  pillar  should 
compel  the  dividing  of  the  path  a  little  further  on, 
and  the  grass  verge — I  am  assuming  the  most  awk- 


232  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

ward  of  exits — should  be  rounded  off  in  every  direc- 
tion, so  as  to  cause  the  ornament  to  become  the  fea- 
ture up  to  which  the  pergola  path  is  leading.  I  may 
mention  incidentally  at  this  moment  that  such  an 
isolated  ornament  as  I  have  suggested  gives  a  legiti- 
mate excuse  for  dividing  any  garden  walk  that  has 
a  tendency  to  weary  the  eye  by  its  persistent  straight- 
ness.  Some  years  ago  no  one  ever  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  make  an  excuse  for  a  curve  in  a  garden  walk. 
The  gardener  simply  got  out  his  iron  and  cut  out 
whatever  curve  he  pleased  on  each  side,  and  the  thing 
was  done.  But  nowadays  one  must  have  a  natural 
reason  for  every  deflection  in  a  path ;  and  an  obstacle 
is  introduced  only  to  be  avoided. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  there  are  pergolas  and  per- 
golas. I  saw  one  that  cost  between  two  and  three 
thousand  pounds  in  a  garden  beyond  Beaulieu,  be- 
tween Mont  Boron  and  Monte  Carlo — an  ideal  site. 
It  was  made  up  of  porphyry  columns  with  Corinthian 
carved  capitals  and  wrought-iron  work  of  a  beautiful 
design,  largely,  but  not  lavishly,  gilt,  as  a  sort  of 
frieze  running  from  pillar  to  pillar;  a  bronze  vase 
stood  between  each  of  the  panels,  and  the  handles  of 
these  were  also  gilt.  I  have  known  of  quite  respecta- 
ble persons  creating  quite  presentable  pergolas  for 
less  money.  In  that  favoured  part  of  the  world,  how- 
ever, everything  bizarre  and  extravagant  seems  to 
find  a  place  and  to  look  in  keeping  with  its  surround- 
ings. 

The  antithesis  to  this  gorgeous  and  thoroughly 
beautiful  piece  of  work  I  have  seen  in  many  gardens 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  233 

in  England.  It  is  the  "  rustic  "  pergola,  a  thing  that 
may  be  acquired  for  a  couple  of  pounds  and  that 
may,  with  attention,  last  a  couple  of  years.  Anything 
is  better  than  this — no  pergola  at  all  is  better  than 
this.  In  Italy  one  sees  along  the  roadsides  numbers 
of  these  structures  overgrown  with  vines;  but  never 
yet  did  I  see  one  that  was  not  either  in  a  broken- 
down  condition  or  rapidly  approaching  such  a  condi- 
tion ;  although  the  poles  are  usually  made  of  chestnut 
which  should  last  a  long  time — unlike  our  larch,  the 
life  of  which  when  cut  into  poles  and  inserted  in  the 
cold  earth  does  not  as  a  rule  go  beyond  the  third  year. 
But  there  is  something  workable  in  this  line  be- 
tween the  three-thousand-pounder  of  the  Riviera,  and 
the  three-pounder  of  Clapham.  If  people  will  only 
keep  their  eyes  open  for  posts  suitable  for  the  pillars 
of  a  pergola,  they  will  be  able  to  collect  a  sufficient 
number  to  make  a  start  with  inside  a  year.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  woodwork  I  should  recommend  being 
brought  already  shaped  and  creosoted  from  some  of 
those  large  sawmills  where  such  work  is  made  a  spe- 
ciality of.  But  there  is  no  use  getting  anything  that 
is  not  strong  and  durable,  and  every  upright  pillar 
should  be  embedded  in  concrete  or  cement.  For  one 
of  my  own  pergolas — I  do  not  call  them  pergolas  but 
colonnades — I  found  a  disused  telegraph  pole  and 
sawed  it  into  lengths  of  thirty  inches  each.  These  I 
sank  eighteen  inches  in  the  ground  at  regular  inter- 
vals and  on  each  I  doweled  two  oak  poles  six  inches 
in  diameter.  They  are  standing  well;  for  telegraph 
posts  which  have  been  properly  treated  are  nearly  as 


234  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

durable  as  iron.  All  the  woodwork  for  this  I  got 
ready  sawn  and  "  dipped  "  from  a  well-known  fac- 
tory at  Croydon.  It  is  eighty  feet  long  and  paved 
throughout.  One  man  was  able  to  put  it  up  inside 
a  fine  fortnight  in  the  month  of  January. 

A  second  colonnade  that  I  have  is  under  forty  feet 
in  length.  I  made  one  side  of  it  against  a  screen  of 
sweetbrier  roses  which  had  grown  to  a  height  of 
twenty  feet  in  five  years.  The  making  of  it  was  sug- 
gested to  me  by  the  chance  I  had  of  buying  at  house- 
breaker's price  a  number  of  little  columns  taken  from 
a  shop  that  was  being  pulled  down  to  give  place,  as 
usual,  to  a  new  cinema  palace. 

An  amusing  sidelight  upon  the  imperiousness  of 
fashion  was  afforded  us  when  the  painter  set  to  work 
upon  these.  They  had  once  been  treated  in  that  form 
of  decoration  known  as  "  oak  grained  " — that  pale 
yellow  colour  touched  with  an  implement  technically 
called  a  comb,  professing  to  give  to  ordinary  deal  the 
appearance  of  British  oak,  and  possibly  deceiving  a 
person  here  and  there  who  had  never  seen  oak.  But 
when  my  painter  began  to  burn  off  this  stuff  he  dis- 
covered that  the  column  had  actually  been  papered 
and  then  painted  and  grained.  This  made  his  work 
easy,  for  he  was  able  to  tear  the  paper  away  in  strips. 
But  when  he  had  done  this  he  made  the  further  dis- 
covery that  the  wood  underneath  was  good  oak  with 
a  natural  grain  showing! 

Could  anything  be  more  ridiculous  than  the  fash- 
ion of  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago,  when  the  art  of 
graining  had  reached  its  highest  level?  Here  were 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  235 

beautiful  oak  columns  which  only  required  to  be 
waxed  to  display  to  full  advantage  the  graceful  nat- 
ural "  feathering  "  of  the  wood,  papered  over  and 
then  put  into  the  hands  of  the  artist  to  make  it  by 
his  process  of  "  oak-graining  "  as  unlike  oak  as  the 
basilica  of  St.  Mark  is  unlike  Westminster  Abbey! 

But  for  a  large  garden  where  everything  is  on  a 
heroic  scale,  the  only  suitable  pergola  is  one  made  up 
of  high  brick  or  stone  piers,  with  massive  oak  beams 
for  the  roof.  Such  a  structure  will  last  for  a  century 
or  two,  improving  year  by  year.  The  only  question 
to  consider  is  the  proper  proportions  that  it  should 
assume — the  relations  of  the  length  to  the  breadth 
and  to  the  height.  On  such  points  I  dare  not  speak. 
The  architect  who  has  had  experience  of  such  struc- 
tures must  be  consulted.  I  have  seen  some  that  have 
been  carried  out  without  reference  to  the  profession, 
and  to  my  mind  their  proportions  were  not  right. 
One  had  the  semblance  of  being  stunted,  another  was 
certainly  not  sufficiently  broad  by  at  least  two  feet. 

In  this  connection  I  may  be  pardoned  if  I  give  it 
as  my  opinion  that  most  pergolas  suffer  from  lack 
of  breadth.  Six  feet  is  the  narrowest  breadth  pos- 
sible for  one  that  is  eight  feet  high  to  the  cross  beams. 
I  think  that  a  pergola  in  England  should  be  paved, 
not  in  that  contemptible  fashion,  properly  termed 
"  crazy,"  but  with  either  stone  slabs  or  paving  tiles; 
if  one  can  afford  to  have  the  work  done  in  panels, 
so  much  the  better.  In  this  way  nothing  looks  bet- 
ter than  small  bricks  set  in  herring-bone  patterns. 
If  one  can  afford  a  course  of  coloured  bricks,  so  much 


236  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

the  better.     The  riotous  gaiety  of  colour  overhead 
should  be  responded  to  in  some  measure  underfoot. 

There  is  no  reason  against,  but  many  strong  rea- 
sons for,  interrupting  the  lines  of  a  long  pergola  by 
making  a  dome  of  open  woodwork  between  the  four 
middle  columns  of  support — assuming  that  all  the  rest 
of  the  woodwork  is  straight — and  creating  a  curved 
alcove  with  a  seat  between  the  two  back  supports, 
thus  forming  at  very  little  extra  expense,  an  addi- 
tional bower  to  the  others  which  will  come  into  exist- 
ence year  by  year  in  a  garden  that  is  properly  looked 
after. 

When  I  was  a  schoolboy  I  was  brought  by  my  desk- 
mate  to  his  father's  place,  and  escorted  round  the 
grounds  by  his  sister,  for  whom  I  cherished  a  passion 
that  I  hoped  was  not  hopeless.  This  was  while  my 
friend  was  busy  looking  after  the  nets  for  the  lawn 
tennis.  There  were  three  summer-houses  in  various 
parts  of  the  somewhat  extensive  grounds,  and  in  every 
one  of  them  we  came  quite  too  suddenly  upon  a  pair 
of  quite  too  obvious  lovers. 

The  sister  cicerone  hurried  past  each  with  averted 
eyes — after  the  first  glance — and  looked  at  me  and 
smiled. 

We  were  turning  into  another  avenue  after  pass- 
ing the  third  of  these  love-birds,  when  she  stopped 
abruptly. 

;<  We  had  better  not  go  on  any  farther,"  said  she. 

"Oh,  why  not?"  I  cried. 

'  Well,  there's  another  summer-house  down  there 
among  the  lilacs,"  she  replied. 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  237 

We  stood  there  while  she  looked  around,  plainly 
in  search  of  a  route  that  should  be  less  distracting. 
It  was  at  this  moment  of  indecision  that  I  gazed  at 
her.  I  thought  that  I  had  never  seen  her  look  so 
lovely.  I  felt  myself  trembling.  I  know  that  my 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  ground — I  could  not 
have  spoken  the  words  if  I  had  looked  up  to  her 
— she  was  a  good  head  and  shoulder  taller  than  I 
was: — 

"  Look  here,  Miss  Fanny,  there  may  be  no  one  in 
the  last  of  the  summer-houses.  Let  us  go  there  and 
sit — sit — the  same  as  the  others." 

"  Oh,  no;  I  should  be  afraid,"  said  she. 

"  Oh,  I  swear  to  you  that  you  shall  have  no  cause, 
Miss  Fanny ;  I  know  what  is  due  to  the  one  you  love ; 
you  will  be  quite  safe — sacred." 

'' What  do  you  know  about  the  one  I  love?"  she 
asked — and  there  was  a  smile  in  her  voice. 

"  I  know  the  one  who  loves  you,"  I  said  warmly. 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  she  cried.  "  I  know  that  he  is  look- 
ing for  me  everywhere,  and  if  he  found  us  together 
in  a  summer-house  he  would  be  sure  to  kill  you.  Cap- 
tain Tyson  is  a  frightfully  jealous  man,  and  you  are 
too  nice  a  boy  to  be  killed.  Do  you  mind  running 
round  by  the  rhododendrons  and  telling  Bob  that  he 
may  wear  my  tennis  shoes  to-day?  I  got  a  new  pair 
yesterday." 

I  went  slowly  toward  the  rhododendrons.  When  I 
got  beyond  their  shelter  I  looked  back. 

I  did  not  see  her,  but  I  saw  the  sprightly  figure 
of  a  naval  man  crossing  the  grass  toward  where  I 


238  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

had  left  her,  and  I  knew  him  to  be  Commander 
Tyson,  R.N. 

Their  second  son  is  Commander  Tyson,  R.  N.,  to- 
day. 

But  from  that  hour  I  made  up  my  mind  that  a 
properly  designed  garden  should  have  at  least  five 
summer-houses. 

I  have  just  made  my  fifth. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTIETH 

I  AM  sure  that  the  most  peaceful  part  of  our  Garden 
of  Peace  is  the  Place  of  Roses.  The  place  of  roses 
in  the  time  of  roses  is  one  bower.  It  grew  out  of  the 
orchard  ground  which  I  had  turned  into  a  lawn  in 
exchange  for  the  grassy  space  which  I  had  turned  into 
the  House  Garden.  The  grass  came  very  rapidly 
when  I  had  grubbed  up  the  roots  of  the  old  plums 
and  cherries.  But  then  we  found  that  the  stone-edged 
beds  and  the  central  fountain  had  not  really  taken 
possession,  so  to  speak,  of  the  House  Garden.  This 
had  still  the  character  of  a  lawn  for  all  its  bed- 
ding, and  could  not  be  mown  in  less  than  two 
hours. 

And  just  as  I  was  becoming  impressed  with  this 
fact,  a  gentle  general  dealer  came  to  me  with  the  in- 
quiry if  a  tall  wooden  pillar  would  be  of  any  use  to 
me.  I  could  not  tell  him  until  I  had  seen  it,  and  when 
I  had  seen  it  and  bought  it  and  had  it  conveyed  home 
I  could  not  tell  him. 

It  was  a  fluted  column  of  wood,  nearly  twenty 
feet  high  and  two  in  diameter,  with  a  base  and  a 
carved  Corinthian  capital — quite  an  imposing  object, 
but,  as  usual,  the  people  at  the  auction  were  so  startled 
by  having  brought  before  them  something  to  which 

239 


240  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

they  were  unaccustomed,  they  would  not  make  a  bid 
for  it,  and  my  dealer,  who  has  brought  me  many  an 
embarrassing  treasure,  got  it  for  the  ten  shillings  at 
which  he  had  started  it. 

It  lay  on  the  grass  where  it  had  been  left  by  the 
carters,  giving  to  the  landscape  for  a  whole  week  the 
semblance  of  the  place  of  the  Parthenon  or  the  Acrop- 
olis; but  on  the  seventh  day  I  clearly  saw  that  one 
cannot  possess  a  white  elephant  without  making  some 
sacrifices  for  that  distinction,  and  I  resolved  to  sac- 
rifice the  new  lawn  to  my  hasty  purchase.  There  are 
few  things  in  the  world  dearer  than  a  bargain,  and 
none  more  irresistible.  But,  as  it  turned  out,  this 
was  altogether  an  exceptional  thing — as  a  matter  of 
fact,  all  my  bargains  are.  I  made  it  stand  in  the 
centre  of  the  lawn  and  I  saw  the  place  transformed. 

It  occupied  no  more  than  a  patch  less  than  a  yard 
in  diameter;  but  it  dominated  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood. On  one  side  of  the  place  there  is  a  range  of 
shrubs  on  a  small  mound,  making  people  who  stand 
by  the  new  pond  of  water-lilies  believe  that  they  have 
come  to  the  bottom  of  the  garden;  on  another  side 
is  the  old  Saxon  earthwork,  now  turned  into  an  ex- 
panse of  things  herbaceous,  with  a  long  curved  grass 
path  under  the  ancient  castle  walls;  down  the  full 
length  of  the  third  side  runs  a  pergola,  giving  no  one 
a  glimpse  of  a  great  breadth  of  rose-beds  or  of  the 
colonnade  beyond,  where  the  sweet-briers  have  their 
own  way. 

There  was  no  reason  that  I  could  see  (now  that 
I  had  set  my  heart  on  the  scheme)  why  I  should  not 


THE  ENTRANCE  TO  A  GREENHOUSE 


[Page  240 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  241 

set  up  a  gigantic  rose  pillar  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn 
and  see  what  would  happen. 

What  actually  did  happen  before  another  year  had 
passed  was  the  erecting  of  a  tall  pillar  which  looked 
so  lonely  in  the  midst  of  the  grass — a  lighthouse  mark- 
ing a  shoal  in  a  green  sea — that  I  made  four  large 
round  beds  about  it,  at  a  distance  of  about  twenty 
feet,  and  set  up  a  nine-foot  pillar  in  the  centre  of 
each,  planting  climbing  roses  of  various  sorts  around 
it,  hoping  that  in  due  time  the  whole  should  be  in- 
corporated and  form  a  ring  o'  roses  about  the  tower- 
ing centre  column. 

It  really  took  no  more  than  two  years  to  bring  to 
fruition  my  most  sanguine  hopes,  and  now  there  are 
four  rose-tents  with  hundreds  of  prolific  shoots  above 
the  apex  of  each,  clinging  with  eager  fingers  to  the 
wires  which  I  have  brought  to  them  from  the  top  of 
the  central  pillar,  and  threatening  in  time  to  form  a 
complete  canopy  between  forty  and  fifty  feet  in  diam- 
eter. 

In  the  shade  of  these  ambitious  things  one  sits  in 
what  I  say  is  the  most  peaceful  part  of  the  whole  place 
of  peace.  Even  "  winter  and  rough  weather  "  may 
be  regarded  with  complacency  from  the  well-sheltered 
seats;  and  every  year  toward  the  end  of  November 
Rosamund  brings  into  the  house  some  big  sprays  of 
ramblers  and  asks  her  mother  if  there  is  any  boracic 
lint  handy.  He  jests  at  scars  who  never  felt  an  Ards 
Rover  scrape  down  his  arm  in  resisting  lawful  arrest. 
But  in  July  and  August,  looking  down  upon  the 
growing  canopy  from  the  grass  walk  above  the  her- 


242  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

baceous  terrace,  is  like  realising  Byron's  awful  long- 
ing for  all  the  rosy  lips  of  all  the  rosy  girls  in  the 
world  to  "  become  one  mouth  "  in  order  that  he  might 
"  kiss  them  all  at  once  from  North  to  South."  There 
they  are,  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  rosy 
mouths;  but  not  for  kisses,  even  separately.  Hey- 
wood,  who,  being  a  painter,  is  a  thoroughly  trust- 
worthy consultant  on  all  artistic  matters,  assures  me 
that  Byron  was  a  fool,  and  that  his  longing  for  a  uni- 
fication of  a  million  moments  of  aesthetic  delight  was 
unworthy  of  his  reputation.  There  may  be  some- 
thing in  this.  I  am  content  to  look  down  upon  our 
eager  roses  with  no  more  of  a  longing  than  that  Sep- 
tember were  as  far  off  as  Christmas. 

It  was  our  antiquarian  neighbour  who,  walking  on 
the  terrace  one  day  in  mid-July,  told  us  of  a  beautiful 
poem  which  he  had  just  seen  in  the  customary  corner 
of  the  Gazette — the  full  name  of  the  paper  is  The 
Yardley  Gazette,  East  Longworth  Chronicle,  and 
Nethershire  Observer,  but  one  would  no  more  think 
of  giving  it  all  its  titles  in  ordinary  conversation  than 
of  giving  the  Duke  of  Wellington  all  his.  It  is  with 
us  as  much  the  Gazette  as  if  no  other  Gazette  had  ever 
been  published.  But  it  prints  a  copy  of  verses,  an- 
cient or  modern,  every  week,  and  our  friend  had  got 
hold  of  a  gem.  The  roses  reminded  him  of  it.  He 
could  only  recollect  the  first  two  lines,  but  they  were 
striking: — 

"  There's  a  bower  of  rose  by  Bendameer's  stream 
And  the  nightingale  sings  in  it  all  the  night  long." 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  243 

Bendameer  was  some  place  in  China,  he  thought,  or 
perhaps  Japan — but  for  the  matter  of  that  it  might 
not  be  a  real  locality,  but  merely  a  place  invented  by 
the  poet.  Anyhow,  he  would  in  future  call  the  terrace 
walk  Bendameer,  for  could  any  one  imagine  a  finer 
bower  of  roses  than  that  beneath  us?  He  did  not 
believe  that  Bendameer  could  beat  it. 

If  our  friend  had  talked  to  Sir  Foster  Fraser — the 
only  person  I  ever  met  who  had  been  to  Bendameer's 
stream — he  might  have  expressed  his  belief  much  more 
enthusiastically.  On  returning  from  his  bicycle  tour 
round  the  world,  and  somewhat  disillusioned  by  the 
East,  ready  to  affirm  that  fifty  years  of  Europe  were 
better  than  a  cycle  in  Cathay,  he  told  me  that  Ben- 
dameer's stream  was  a  complete  fraud.  It  was  noth- 
ing but  a  muddy  puddle  oozing  its  way  through  an 
uninteresting  district. 

In  accordance  with  our  rule,  neither  Dorothy  nor  I 
went  further  than  to  confess  that  the  lines  were  very 
sweet. 

"  I'll  get  you  a  copy  with  pleasure,"  he  cried.  "  I 
knew  you  would  like  them,  you  are  both  so  literary; 
and  you  know  how  literary  I  am  myself — I  cut  out 
all  the  poems  that  appear  in  the  Gazette.  It's  a  hob- 
by, and  elevating.  I  suppose  you  don't  think  it  pos- 
sible to  combine  antiquarian  tastes  and  poetical." 
Dorothy  assured  him  that  she  could  see  a  distinct  con- 
nection between  the  two ;  and  he  went  on :  "  There  was 
another  about  roses  the  week  before.  The  editor  is 
clearly  a  man  of  taste,  and  he  puts  in  only  things 
that  are  appropriate  to  the  season.  The  other  one 


244  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

was  about  a  garden— quite  pretty,  only  perhaps  a  lit- 
tle vague.  I  could  not  quite  make  out  what  it  meant 
at  places ;  but  I  intend  to  get  it  off  by  heart,  so  I  wrote 
it  down  in  my  pocket-book.  Here  it  is : — 

"  Rosy  is  the  north, 

Rosy  is  the  south, 
Rosy  are  her  cheeks 
And  a  rose  her  mouth." 

Now  what  do  you  think  of  it?  I  call  it  very  pretty — 
not  so  good,  on  the  whole,  as  the  bower  of  roses  by 
Bendameer's  stream,  but  still  quite  nice.  You  would 
not  be  afraid  to  let  one  of  your  little  girls  read  it — 
yes,  every  line." 

Dorothy  said  that  she  would  not;  but  then  Dor- 
othy is  afraid  of  nothing — not  even  an  antiquarian. 

He  returned  to  us  the  next  day  with  the  full  text 
— only  embellished  with  half  a  dozen  of  the  Gazette's 
misprints — of  the  Lalla  Rookh  song,  and  read  it  out 
to  us  in  full,  but  failing  now  and  again  to  get  into 
the  lilt  of  Moore's  melodious  anapaests — a  marvellous 
feat,  considering  how  they  sing  and  swing  themselves 
along  from  line  to  line.  But  that  was  not  enough. 
He  had  another  story  for  us — fresh,  quite  fresh,  from 
the  stock  of  a  brother  antiquarian  who  recollected  it, 
he  said,  when  watching  the  players  on  the  bowling- 
green. 

"  I  thought  I  should  not  lose  a  minute  in  coming 
to  you  with  it,"  he  said.  "  You  are  so  close  to  the 
bowling-green  here,  it  should  have  additional  interest 
in  your  eyes.  The  story  is  that  Nelson  was  playing 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  245 

bowls  when  some  one  rushed  in  to  say  that  the  Spanish 
Armada  was  in  sight.  But  the  news  did  not  put  him 
off  his  game.  *  We'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  finish  our 
game  and  beat  the  Spaniards  afterwards/  he  cried; 
and  sure  enough  he  went  on  with  the  game  to  the 
end.  There  was  a  man  for  you!  " 

"  And  who  won?  "  asked  Dorothy  innocently. 

"  That's  just  the  question  I  put  to  my  friend,"  he 
cried.  "  The  story  is  plainly  unfinished.  He  did  not 
say  whether  Nelson  and  his  partner  won  his  game 
against  the  other  players;  but  you  may  be  sure  that 
he  did." 

"He  didn't  say  who  was  Nelson's  partner?"  said 
Dorothy. 

"  No,  I  have  told  you  all  that  he  told  me,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  hear  that  his  partner 
was  a  man  named  Drake,"  said  I.  "  A  senior  partner 
too  in  that  transaction  and  others.  But  the  story  is 
a  capital  one  and  shows  the  Englishman  as  he  is 
to-day.  Why,  it  was  only  the  year  before  the  war 
that  there  was  a  verse  going  about, — 

*  I  was  playing  golf  one  day 

When  the  Germans  landed ; 
All  our  men  had  run  away, 

All  our  ships  were  stranded- 
And  the  thought  of  England's  shame 
Almost  put  me  off  my  game.' ' 

Our  antiquarian  friend  looked  puzzled  for  some 
time;  then  he  shook  his  head  gravely,  saying: — 


246  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

"I  don't  like  that.  It's  a  gross  libel  upon  our 
brave  men — and  on  our  noble  sailors  too:  I  heard 
some  one  say  in  a  speech  the  other  day  that  there 
are  no  better  seamen  in  the  world  than  are  in  the 
British  Navy.  Our  soldiers  did  not  run  away,  and 
all  our  ships  were  not  stranded.  It  was  one  of  the 
German  lies  to  say  so.  And  what  I  say  is  that  it  was 
very  lucky  for  the  man  who  wrote  that  verse  that 
there  was  a  British  fleet  to  prevent  the  Germans  land- 
ing. They  never  did  succeed  in  landing,  I'm  sure, 
though  I  was  talking  to  a  man  who  had  it  on  good 
authority  that  there  were  five  U-boats  beginning  to 
disembark  some  crack  regiments  of  Hun  cavalry 
when  a  British  man-o'-war — one,  mind  you — a  single 
ship — came  in  sight,  and  they  all  bundled  back  to 
their  blessed  U-boats  in  double  quick  time." 

"  I  think  you  told  me  about  that  before,"  said  I — 
and  he  had.  "  It  was  the  same  person  who  brought 
the  first  news  of  the  Russian  troops  going  through 
England — he  had  seen  them  on  the  platform  of 
Crewe  stamping  off  the  snow  they  had  brought  on 
their  boots  from  Archangel;  and  afterwards  he  had 
been  talking  with  a  soldier  who  had  seen  the  angels 
at  Mons,  and  had  been  ordered  home  to  be  one  of  the 
shooting  party  at  the  Tower  of  London,  when  Prince 
Louis  was  court-martialled  and  sentenced." 

"  Quite  true,"  he  cried.  "  My  God!  what  an  expe- 
rience for  any  one  man  to  go  through.  But  we  are 
living  in  extraordinary  times— that's  what  I've  never 
shrunk  from  saying,  no  matter  who  was  present- 
extraordinary  times." 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  247 

I  could  not  but  agree  with  him.  I  did  not  say  that 
what  I  thought  the  most  extraordinary  feature  of  the 
times  was  the  extraordinary  credulity  of  so  many 
people.  The  story  of  the  Mons  angels  was  perhaps 
the  most  remarkable  of  all  the  series.  A  journalist 
sitting  in  his  office  in  London  simply  introduced  in 
a  newspaper  article  the  metaphor  of  a  host  of  angels 
holding  up  the  advancing  Germans,  and  within  a 
week  scores  of  people  in  England  had  talked  with 
soldiers  who  had  seen  those  imaginary  angels  and 
were  ready  to  give  a  poulterer's  description  of  them, 
as  Sheridan  said  some  one  would  do  if  he  introduced 
the  Phrenix  into  his  Drury  Lane  Address. 

It  was  no  use  the  journalist  explaining  that  his 
angels  were  purely  imaginary  ones ;  people  said,  when 
you  pointed  this  out  to  them : — 

"  That  may  be  so ;  but  these  were  the  angels  he 
imagined." 

Clergymen  preached  beautiful  sermons  on  the 
angel  host;  and  I  heard  of  a  man  who  sold  for  half 
a  crown  a  feather  which  had  dropped  from  the  wing 
of  one  of  the  angels  who  had  come  on  duty  before  he 
had  quite  got  over  his  moult. 

When  Dorothy  heard  this  she  said  she  was  sure 
that  it  was  no  British  soldier  who  had  shown  the  white 
feather  in  France  during  that  awful  time. 

"  If  they  were  imaginary  angels,  the  white  feather 
must  have  been  imaginary  too,"  said  Olive,  the  prac- 
tical one. 

"  One  of  the  earliest  of  angel  observers  was  an  ass, 
and  the  tradition  has  been  carefully  adhered  to  ever 


248  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

since,"  said  Friswell,  and  after  that  there  was,  of 
course,  no  use  talking  further. 

But  when  we  were  still  laughing  over  our  anti- 
quarian and  his  novelties  in  the  form  of  verse  and 
anecdote,  Friswell  himself  appeared  with  a  news- 
paper in  his  hand,  and  he  too  was  laughing. 

It  was  over  the  touching  letter  of  an  actress  to  her 
errant  husband,  entreating  him  to  return  and  all 
would  be  forgiven.  I  had  read  it  and  smiled ;  so  had 
Dorothy,  and  wept. 

But  it  really  was  a  beautiful  letter,  and  I  said  so 
to  Friswell. 

"  It  is  the  most  beautiful  of  the  four  actresses'  let- 
ters to  errant  spouses  for  Divorce  Court  purposes 
that  I  have  read  within  the  past  few  months,"  said 
he.  "  But  they  are  all  beautiful — all  touching.  It 
makes  one  almost  ready  to  condone  the  sin  that  re- 
sults in  such  an  addition  to  the  literature  of  the  Law 
Courts.  I  wonder  who  is  the  best  person  to  go  to 
for  such  a  letter — some  men  must  make  a  speciality 
of  that  sort  of  work  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  time. 
But  wouldn't  it  be  dreadful  if  the  errant  husband 
became  so  convicted  of  his  trespass  through  reading 
the  wife's  appeal  to  return,  that  he  burst  into  tears, 
called  a  taxi  and  drove  home!  But  these  Divorce 
Court  pleading  letters  are  of  great  value  profes- 
sionally— they  have  quite  blanketed  the  old  lost  jewel- 
case  stunt  as  a  draw.  I  was  present  and  assisted  in 
the  reception  given  by  the  audience  to  the  lady  whose 
beautiful  letter  had  appeared  in  the  paper  in  the 
morning.  She  was  overwhelmed.  She  had  made 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  249 

up  pale  in  view  of  that  reception;  and  there  was 
something  in  her  throat  that  prevented  her  from 
going  on  with  her  words  for  some  time.  The  '  poor 
things ! '  that  one  heard  on  all  sides  showed  how  truly 
sympathetic  is  a  British  audience." 

"  I  refuse  to  listen  to  your  cynicism,"  cried  Doro- 
thy; "  I  prefer  to  believe  that  people  are  good  rather 
than  bad." 

"  And  so  do  I,  my  dear  lady,"  said  he,  laughing. 
"  But  don't  you  see  that  if  you  prefer  to  think  good 
of  all  people,  you  cannot  exclude  the  poor  husband 
of  the  complete  letter-writer,  and  if  you  believe  good 
of  him  and  not  bad,  you  must  believe  that  his  charm- 
ing wife  is  behaving  badly  in  trying  to  get  a  divorce." 

"  She  doesn't  want  a  divorce:  she  wants  him  to 
come  back  to  her  and  writes  to  him  begging  him  to 
do  so,"  said  she. 

"  And  such  a  touching  letter  too,"  I  added. 

"  I  have  always  found  '  the  profession,'  as  they 
call  themselves,  more  touchy  than  touching,"  said  he. 
"  But  I  admit  that  I  never  was  so  touched  as  when, 
at  the  funeral  of  a  brother  artist,  the  leading  actor  of 
that  day  walked  behind  the  coffin  with  the  broken- 
hearted widow  of  the  deceased  on  his  right  arm  and 
the  broken-hearted  mistress  on  the  left.  Talk  of 
stage  pathos ! " 

"  For  my  part,  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said 
I  sharply.  "  I  think,  Friswell,  that  you  sometimes 
forget  that  it  was  you  who  gave  this  place  the  name 
of  A  Garden  of  Peace.  You  introduce  controversial 
topics — The  Actor  is  the  title  of  one  of  these,  The 


250  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

Actress  is  the  title  of  the  other.  Let  us  have  done 
with  them,  and  talk  poetry  instead." 

"Lord  of  the  Garden  of  Peace!  as  if  poetry  was 
the  antithesis  of  polemics— verses  of  controversies!" 
cried  he.  "Never  mind!  give  us  a  poem — of  The 
Peace." 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  said  I.  "  The  two  copies  of 
verses  which,  as  you  know,  without  having  read 
them,  I  contributed  to  the  literature — I  mean  the 
writings — in  connection  with  the  war  could  scarcely 
be  called  pacific." 

"  They  were  quite  an  effective  medium  for  getting 
rid  of  his  superfluous  steam,"  said  Dorothy  to  him. 
"  I  made  no  attempt  to  prevent  his  writing  them." 

"  It  would  have  been  like  sitting  on  the  safety- 
valve,  wouldn't  it?  "  said  he.  "  I  think  that  literature 
would  not  have  suffered  materially  if  a  good  number 
of  safety-valves  had  been  sat  upon  by  stouter  wives 
of  metre-engineers  than  you  will  ever  be,  O  guardian 
lady  of  the  Garden  of  Peace !  The  poets  of  the  pres- 
ent hour  have  got  much  to  recommend  them  to  the 
kindly  notice  of  readers  of  taste,  but  they  have  all 
fallen  short  of  the  true  war  note  on  their  bugles.  Per- 
haps when  they  begin  to  pipe  of  peace  they  will  show 
themselves  better  masters  of  the  reed  than  of  the 
conch." 

"  Whatever  some  of  them  may  be "  I  began, 

when  he  broke  in. 

"  Say  some  of  us,  my  friend:  you  can't  dissociate 
yourself  from  your  pals  in  the  dock:  you  will  be  sen- 
tenced en  bloc,  believe  me." 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  251 

:<  Well,  whatever  we  may  be  we  make  a  better  show 
than  the  Marlborough  Muses  or  the  Wellington  or 
the  Nelson  Muses  did.  What  would  be  thought  of 
The  Campaign  if  it  were  to  appear  to-morrow,  I 
wonder.  But  it  did  more  in  advancing  the  interests 
of  Addison  than  the  complete  Spectator/' 

'  Yes,  although  some  feeble  folk  did  consider  that 
one  bit  of  it  was  verging  on  the  blasphemous — that 
about  riding  on  the  whirlwind  and  directing  the 
storm,"  remarked  Friswell;  he  had  a  good  memory 
for  things  verging  on  the  blasphemous. 

'  The  best  war  poem  is  the  one  that  puts  into 
literary  form  the  man  in  the  street  yelling  '  hurrah ! ' 
said  I.    "  If  the  shout  is  not  spontaneous,  it  sounds 
stilted  and  it  is  worthless." 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  Friswell.  "  If  your  verse 
does  not  find  an  echo  in  the  heart  of  the  rabble  that 
run  after  a  soldiers'  band,  it  is  but  as  the  sounding 
brass  and  tinkling  cymbals  that  crash  on  the  empty 
air.  But  touching  the  poets  of  past  campaigns " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Scott's  Waterloo/'  said  I ; 
"  yes,  and  Byron's  stanzas  in  Childe  Harold,  and 
somebody's  JTwas  in  Trafalgar's  Bay,  We  saw  the 
Frenchmen  lay — '  the  Frenchmen  lay,'  mind  you — 
that's  the  most  popular  of  all  the  lays,  thanks  to 
Braham's  music  and  Braham's  tenor  that  gave  it  a 
start.  I  think  we  have  done  better  than  any  of  those." 

"  But  have  you  done  better  than  Scot's  wha'  hae 
wi'  Wallace  bled?  or  Of  Nelson  and  the  North,  Sing 
the  glorious  day's  renown?  or  Ye  Mariners  of  Eng- 
land, That  guard  our  native  seas?  or  Not  a  drum 


252  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

wa*  heard  or  a  funeral  note?— I  doubt  it.  And  to 
come  down  to  a  later  period,  what  about  the  lilt  of 
the  Light  Brigade  at  Balaclava,  by  one  Tennyson? 
Will  any  of  the  poems  of  1914  show  the  same  vitality 
as  these? " 

"  The  vital  test  of  poetry  is  not  its  vitality,"  said 
I,  "  any  more  than  being  a  best-seller  is  a  test  of  a 
good  novel.  But  I  think  that  when  a  winnowing  of 
the  recent  harvest  takes  place  in  a  year  or  two,  when 
we  become  more  critical  than  is  possible  for  a  people 
just  emerging  from  the  flames  that  make  us  all  see 
red,  you  will  find  that  the  harvest  of  sound  poetry 
will  be  a  record  one.  We  have  still  the  roar  of  the 
thunderstorm  in  our  ears;  when  an  earthquake  is  just 
over  is  not  the  time  for  one  to  be  asked  to  say  whether 
the  Pathetique  or  the  Moonlight  Sonata  is  the  more 
exquisite." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Friswell  doubtfully.  "But  I 
allow  that  you  have  '  jined  your  flats '  better  than 
Tennyson  did.  The  unutterable  vulgarity  of  that 

*  gallant   six   hunderd,'    because    it   happened    that 

*  some  one  had  blundered,'   instead   of   '  blundred,' 
will  not  be  found  in  the  Armageddon  band  of  buglers. 
But  I   don't  believe  that  anything  so   finished   as 
Wolfe's  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  will  come  to  the 
surface  of  the  melting-pot — I  think  that  the  melting- 
pot  suggests  more  than  your  harvest.    Your  harvest 
hints  at  the  swords  being  turned  into  ploughshares; 
my  melting-pot  at  the  bugles  being  thrown  into  the 
crucible.    What  have  you  to  say  about  '  Not  a  drum 
was  heard'?" 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  253 

"  That  poem  is  the  finest  elegy  ever  written,"  said 
I  definitely.  '  The  author,  James  Wolfe,  occupies 
the  place  among  elegists  that  single-speech  Hamilton 
does  among  orators,  or  Liddell  and  Scott  in  a  library 
of  humour.  From  the  first  line  to  the  last,  no  false 
note  is  sounded  in  that  magnificent  funeral  march. 
It  is  one  grand  monotone  throughout.  It  cannot  be 
spoken  except  in  a  low  monotone.  It  never  rises  and 
it  never  falls  until  the  last  line  is  reached,  '  We  left 
him  alone  in  his  glory.' ' 

"  And  the  strangest  thing  about  it  is  that  it  ap- 
peared first  in  the  poets'  corner  of  a  wretched  little 
Irish  newspaper — the  Newry  Telegraph,  I  believe  it 
was  called,"  said  Dorothy — it  was  Dorothy's  reading 
of  the  poem  that  first  impressed  me  with  its  beauty. 

'  The  more  obscure  the  crypt  in  which  its  body  was 
buried,  the  more — the  more — I  can't  just  express  the 
idea  that  I'm  groping  after,"  said  Friswell. 

"  I  should  like  to  help  you,"  said  Dorothy.  "  Strike 
a  match  for  me,  and  I'll  try  to  follow  you  out  of  the 
gloom." 

"  It's  something  like  this :  the  poem  itself  seems  to 
lead  you  into  the  gloom  of  a  tomb,  so  that  there  is 
nothing  incongruous  in  its  disappearing  into  the 
obscurity  of  a  corner  of  a  wretched  rag  of  a  news- 
paper— queer  impression  for  any  one  to  have  about 
such  a  thing,  isn't  it?" 

"  Queer,  but — well,  it  was  but  the  body  that  was 
buried,  the  soul  of  the  poetry  could  not  be  consigned 
to  the  sepulchre,  even  though  '  Resurgam '  was  cut 
upon  the  stone." 


254  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

"  You  have  strolled  away  from  me,"  said  I.  "  All 
that  I  was  thinking  about  Wolfe  and  that  blessed 
Newry  Telegraph,  was  expressed  quite  adequately  by 
the  writer  of  another  Elegy:— 

"  Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark  unf athomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air." 

That  was  a  trite  reflection ;  and  as  apposite  as  yours, 
Friswell;  unless  you  go  on  to  assume  that  through 
the  desert  air  there  buzzed  a  bee  to  carry  off  the  soul 
of  the  blushing  flower  and  cause  it  to  fertilise  a  whole 
garden,  so  that  the  desert  was  made  to  blossom  like 
the  rose." 

"  Who  was  the  bee  that  rescued  the  poem  from  the 
desert  sheet  that  enshrouded  it? "  asked  Dorothy. 

"  I  have  never  heard,"  I  said,  nor  had  Friswell. 

There  was  a  long  pause  before  he  gave  a  laugh, 
saying,— 

"  I  wonder  if  you  will  kick  me  out  of  your  garden 
when  I  tell  you  the  funny  analogy  to  all  this  that  the 
mention  of  the  word  desert  forced  upon  me." 

"  Try  us,"  said  I.    "  We  know  you." 

'  The  thought  that  I  had  was  that  there  are  more 
busy  bees  at  work  than  one  would  suppose;  and  the 
mention  of  the  desert  recalled  to  my  mind  what  I  read 
somewhere  of  the  remarkable  optimism  of  a  flea  which 
a  man  found  on  his  foot  after  crossing  the  desert  of 
the  Sahara.  It  had  lived  on  in  the  sand,  goodness 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  255 

knows  how  long,  on  the  chance  of  some  animal  pass- 
ing within  the  radius  of  a  leap  and  so  carrying  it 
back  to  a  congenial  and  not  too  rasorial  a  civilisation. 
How  many  thousand  mllion  chances  to  one  there  were 
that  it  should  not  be  rescued;  yet  its  chance  came  at 
last." 

"  Meaning? " 

;<  Well,  my  flea  is  your  bee,  and  where  there  are 
no  bees  there  may  be  plenty  of  fleas." 

*  Yes ;  only  my  bee  comes  with  healing  in  its  wings, 
and  your  flea  is  the  bearer  of  disease,"  said  I ;  and  I 
knew  that  I  had  got  the  better  of  him  there,  though 
I  was  not  so  sure  that  he  knew  it. 

Friswell  is  a  queer  mixture. 

After  another  pause,  he  said, — 

"  By  the  way,  the  mention  of  Campbell  and  his 
group  brought  back  to  me  one  of  the  most  popular 
of  the  poems  of  the  period — Lord  Ullin's  Daughter. 
You  recollect  it,  of  course." 

"  A  line  or  two." 

"Well,  it  begins,  you  know: — 

"  A  chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound, 

Cries,   *  Boatman,  do  not  tarry, 
And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound, 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry.' 

Now,  for  long  I  felt  that  it  was  too  great  a  strain 
upon  our  credulity  to  ask  us  to  accept  the  statement 
that  a  Scotsman  would  offer  a  ferryman  a  pound  for 
a  job  of  the  market  value  of  a  bawbee;  but  all  at  once 
the  truth  flashed  upon  me:  the  pound  was  a  pound 


256  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

Scots,  or  one  shilling  and  eightpence  of  our  money. 
You  see?" 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Dorothy;  "but  still  it  sounds 
extravagant.  A  Highland  Chief — one  and  eight- 
pence!  The  ferryman  never  would  have  got  it." 

I  fancied  that  we  had  exhausted  some  of  the  most 
vital  questions  bearing  upon  the  questionable  poetry 
of  the  present  and  the  unquestionable  poetry  of  the 
past;  but  I  was  mistaken;  for  after  dinner  I  had  a 
visit  from  Mr.  Gilbert. 

But  I  must  give  Mr.  Gilbert  a  little  chapter  to 
himself. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FIRST 

OF  course  I  had  known  for  a  long  time  that  Mr.  Gil- 
bert was  "  quite  a  superior  man  " — that  was  the 
phrase  in  which  the  Rural  Dean  referred  to  him  when 
recommending  me  to  apply  to  him  for  information 
respecting  a  recalcitrant  orchid  which  had  refused  one 
year  to  do  what  it  had  been  doing  the  year  before. 
He  was  indeed  "  quite  a  superior  man,"  but  being  a 
florist  he  could  never  be  superior  to  his  business.  No 
man  can  be  superior  to  a  florist,  when  the  florist  is 
an  orchidtect  as  well.  I  went  to  Mr.  Gilbert  and  Mr. 
Gilbert  came  to  me,  and  all  was  right.  That  was  long 
ago.  We  talked  orchids  all  through  that  year  and 
then,  by  way  of  lightening  our  theme,  we  began  to 
talk  of  roses  and  such  like  frivolities,  but  everything 
he  said  was  said  in  perfect  taste.  Though  naturally, 
living  his  life  on  terms  of  absolute  intimacy  with 
orchids,  he  could  not  regard  roses  seriously,  yet  I 
never  heard  him  say  a  disrespectful  word  about  them: 
he  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  regarded  the  ma- 
jority of  rosarians  as  quite  harmless — they  had  their 
hobby,  and  why  should  they  not  indulge  in  it,  he 
asked.  "  After  all,  rosarians  are  God's  creatures  like 
the  rest  of  us,"  he  said,  with  a  tolerant  smile.  And 
I  must  confess  that,  for  all  my  knowledge  of  his 

257 


258  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

being  a  superior  man,  he  startled  me  a  little  by 

adding,— 

"The  orchid  is  epic  and  the  rose  lyric,  sir;  but 
every  one  knows  how  an  incidental  lyric  lightens  up 
the  hundred  pages  of  an  epic.  Oh,  yes,  roses  have 
their  place  in  a  properly  organised  horticultural 
scheme." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  now  that  I  come  to  look 
at  the  matter  in  that  light,"  said  I.  "  You  find  a 
relaxation  in  reading  poetry?  "  I  added. 

"  I  have  made  a  point  of  reading  some  verses  every 
night  for  the  past  twenty-five  years,  sir,"  he  replied. 
"  I  find  that's  the  only  way  by  which  I  can  keep 
myself  up  to  the  mark." 

"  I  can  quite  understand  that,"  said  I.  "  Flowers 
are  the  lyrics  that,  as  you  say,  lighten  the  great  epic 
of  Creation.  Where  would  our  poets  be  without  their 
flowers?" 

;<  They  make  their  first  appeal  to  the  poet,  sir ;  but 
the  worst  of  it  is  that  every  one  who  can  string  to- 
gether a  few  lines  about  a  flower  believes  himself  to 
be  a  poet.  No  class  of  men  have  treated  flowers 
worse  than  our  poets — even  the  best  of  them  are  so 
vague  in  their  references  to  flowers  as  to  irritate  me." 

"  In  what  way,  Mr.  Gilbert? " 

"Well,  you  know,  sir,  they  will  never  tell  us 
plainly  just  what  they  are  driving  at.  For  instance 
— we  were  speaking  of  roses,  just  now — well,  we  have 
roses  and  roses  by  the  score  in  poems;  but  how  seldom 
do  we  find  the  roses  specified!  There's  Matthew 
Arnold,  for  example;  he  wrote  "  Strew  on  her  roses, 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  259 

roses";  but  he  did  not  say  whether  he  wanted  her 
to  be  strewn  with  hybrid  teas,  Wichuraianas,  or  poly- 
anthas.  He  does  not  even  suggest  the  colour.  Now, 
could  anything  be  more  vague?  It  makes  one  believe 
that  he  was  quite  indifferent  on  the  point,  which 
would,  of  course,  be  doing  him  a  great  injustice:  all 
these  funeral  orders  are  specified,  down  to  the  last 
violets  and  Stephanotis.  Then  we  have,  "  It  was  the 
time  of  roses  " — now,  there's  another  ridiculously 
vague  phrase.  Why  could  the  poet  not  have  said 
whether  he  had  in  his  mind  the  ordinary  brier  or  an 
autumn-flowering  William  Allen  Richardson  or  a 
Gloire  de  Dijon?  But  that  is  not  nearly  so  irritating 
as  Tennyson  is  in  places.  You  remember  his  "  Flower 
in  the  crannied  wall."  There  he  leaves  a  reader  in 
doubt  as  to  what  the  plant  really  was.  If  it  was 
Saracha  Hapelioides,  he  should  have  called  it  a  herb, 
or  if  it  was  simply  the  ordinary  Scolopendrium 
marginatum  he  should  have  called  it  a  fern.  If  it 
was  one  of  the  Saxifragece  he  left  his  readers  quite  a 
bewildering  choice.  My  own  impression  is  that  it 
belonged  to  the  Evaizoonia  section — probably  the 
Aizoon  sempervivoides,  though  it  really  might  have 
been  the  cartilaginea.  Why  should  we  be  left  to 
puzzle  over  the  thing?  But  for  that  matter,  both 
Shakespeare  and  Milton  are  most  flagrant  offenders, 
though  I  acknowledge  that  the  former  now  and  again 
specifies  his  roses:  the  musk  and  damask  were  his 
favourites.  But  why  should  he  not  say  whether  it 
was  Thymus  Serpyllum  or  atropurpureus  he  alluded 
to  on  that  bank?  He  merely  says,  "  Whereon  the 


260  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

wild  thyme  blows."  It  is  really  that  vagueness,  that 
absence  of  simplicity— which  has  made  poetry  so  un- 
popular. Then  think  of  the  trouble  it  must  be  to  a 
foreigner  when  he  comes  upon  a  line  comparing  a 
maiden  to  a  lily,  without  saying  what  particular  lilium 
is  meant.  An  Indian  squaw  is  like  a  lily — lilium 
Brownii;  a  Japanese  may  appropriately  be  said  to  be 
like  the  lilium  sulphureum.  Recovering  from  a  severe 
attack  of  measles  a  young  woman  suggests  lilium 
speciosum;  but  that  is  just  the  moment  when  she 
makes  a  poor  appeal  to  a  poet.  To  say  that  a  maiden 
is  like  a  lily  conveys  nothing  definite  to  the  mind ;  but 
that  sort  of  neutrality  is  preferable  to  the  creation  of 
a  false  impression,  so  doing  her  a  great  injustice  by 
suggesting  it  may  be  that  her  complexion  is  a  bright 
orange  picked  out  with  spots  of  purple." 

That  was  what  our  Mr.  Gilbert  said  to  me  more 
than  a  year  ago;  and  now  he  comes  to  me  before  I 
have  quite  recovered  from  the  effects  of  that  discus- 
sion with  Friswell,  and  after  a  few  professional  re- 
marks respecting  a  new  orchid  acquisition,  begins: 
"  Might  I  take  the  liberty  of  reading  you  a  little  thing 
which  I  wrote  last  night  as  an  experiment  in  the 
direction  of  the  reform  I  advocated  a  year  ago  when 
referring  to  the  vagueness  of  poets'  flowers?  I  don't 
say  that  the  verses  have  any  poetical  merit;  but  I 
claim  for  them  a  definiteness  and  a  lucidity  that 
should  appeal  to  all  readers  who,  like  myself,  are  tired 
of  the  slovenly  and  loose  way  in  which  poets  drag 
flowers  into  their  compositions." 

I  assured  him  that  nothing  would  give  me  greater 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  261 

pleasure  than  to  hear  his  poem;  and  he  thanked  me 
and  said  that  the  title  was,  The  Florist  to  his  Bride. 
This  was  his  poem: — 

Do  you  remember,  dearest,  that  wild  eve, 
When  March  came  blustering  o'er  the  land? 
We  stood  together,  hand  in  hand, 
Watching  the  slate-gray  waters  heave — 
Hearing  despairing  boughs  behind  us  grieve. 

It  seemed  as  if  no  forest  voice  was  dumb. 

All  Nature  joining  in  one  cry; 

The  Ampelopsis  Veitchii, 
Giving  gray  hints  of  green  to  come, 
Shrank  o'er  the  leafless  Prunus  Aviv/m. 

Desolate  seemed  the  grove  of  Coniferia, 

Evergreen  as  deciduous; 

Hopeless  the  hour  seemed  unto  us ; 
Helpless  our  beauteous  Cryptomeria — 
Helpless  in  Winter's  clutch  our  Koelreuteria. 

We  stood  beneath  our  Ulmus  Gracilis, 
And  watched  the  tempest-torn  Fitzroya, 
And  shaken  than  the  stout  Sequoia; 

And  yet  I  knew  in  spite  of  this, 

Your  heart  was  hopeful  of  the  Springtide's  kiss. 

Yours  was  the  faith  of  woman,  dearest  child. 

Your  eyes — Centaur 'ea  Cyanus — 

Saw  what  I  saw  not  nigh  to  us, 
And  that,  I  knew,  ,was  why  you  smiled, 
When  the  Montana  Pendula  swung  wild. 

I  knew  you  smiled,  thinking  of  suns  to  come, 
Seeing  in  snowflakes  on  bare  trees 
Solanwm  Jasmmoldes — 


262  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

Seeing  ere  Winter's  voice  was  dumb, 
The  peeping  pink  Mesembrianthium. 

I  knew  you  saw  as  if  they  flowered  before  us, 

The  sweet  Rhodora  Canadensis, 

The  lush  Wistaria  Sinensis, 
The  Lepsosiphon  Densiflorus — 
All  flowers  that  swell  the  Summer's  colour-chorus. 

And,  lightened  by  your  smile,  I  saw,  my  Alice, 

The  modest  Resida  Odor  at  a — 

Linaria  Reticulata — 
I  drank  the  sweets  of  Summer's  chalice, 
Sparkling  Calendula  Officmalis. 

To  me  your  smile  brought  sunshine  that  gray  day, 

The  saddest  Salex  Babylonica 

Became  Anemone  Japonica 
And  the  whole  world  beneath  its  ray, 
Bloomed  one  Escholtzia  Californicce. 

Still  in  thy  smile  the  summer  airs  caress  us; 
And  now  with  thee  my  faith  is  sure: 
The  love  that  binds  us  shall  endure — 
Nay,  growing  day  by  day  to  bless  us, 
Till  o'er  us  waves  Supervirens  Cupressus. 

;<  I  hope  I  haven't  bored  you,  sir.  I  don't  pretend 
to  be  a  poet;  but  you  see  what  my  aim  is,  I'm  sure — 
lucidity  and  accuracy — strict  accuracy,  sir.  Some- 
thing that  every  one  can  understand." 

I  assured  him  that  he  had  convinced  me  that  he 
understood  his  business:  he  was  incomparable — as  a 
florist. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-SECOND 

AMONG  the  features  of  our  gardens  for  which  I  am 
not  responsible,  is  the  grass  walk  alongside  the  Castle 
Wall,  where  it  descends  on  one  side,  by  the  remains 
of  the  terraces  of  the  Duke's  hanging  gardens,  fifty 
feet  into  the  original  fosse,  while  on  the  other  it 
breasts  the  ancient  Saxon  earthwork,  which  reduces 
its  height  to  something  under  fifteen,  so  that  the  wall 
on  our  side  is  quite  a  low  one,  but  happily  of  a  breadth 
that  allows  of  a  growth  of  wild  things — lilacs  and 
veronicas  and  the  like — in  beautiful  luxuriance,  while 
the  face  is  in  itself  a  garden  of  crevices  where  the 
wallflowers  last  long  enough  to  mix  with  the  snap- 
dragons and  scores  of  modest  hyssops  and  mosses  and 
ferns  that  lurk  in  every  cranny. 

Was  it  beneath  such  a  wall  that  Tennyson  stood  to 
wonder  how  he  should  fulfil  the  commission  he  had 
received  from  Good  Words — or  was  it  Once  a  Week? 
—for  any  sort  of  poem  that  would  serve  as  an  adver- 
tisement of  magazine  enterprise,  and  he  wrote  that 
gem  to  which  Mr.  Gilbert  had  referred? — 

"  Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies ; 
Hold  you  here,  stem  and  all  in  my  hand. 

Little  flower;  but  if  I  could  understand 
262 


264  A  GAKDEN  OF  PEACE 

What  you  are,  stem  and  all  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is." 

I  should  like  equal  immortality  to  be  conferred  upon 
the  parody  which  is  of  far  greater  merit  than  the 
original  :— 

'  Terrier  in  my  granny's  hall, 

I  whistle  you  out  of  my  granny's ; 
Hold  you  here,  tail  and  all  in  my  hand. 
Little  terrier;  but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  tail  and  all  and  all  in  all, 

I  should  know  what  black-and-tan  is." 

I  could  understand  the  inspiration  that  should  re- 
sult in  sermons  from  stones — such  as  the  poet's  for- 
getting that  his  mission  was  not  that  of  the  sermon- 
ising missionary,  but  of  the  singer  of  such  creations 
of  beauty  as  offer  themselves  to  nestle  to  the  heart  of 
man — when  walking  round  the  gracious  curve  that 
the  grass  path  makes  till  it  is  arrested  by  the  break 
in  the  wall  where  the  postern  gate  once  hung,  guarded 
by  the  sentinel  whose  feet  must  have  paced  this  grass 
path  until  no  blade  of  grass  remained  on  it. 

Early  every  summer  the  glory  of  the  snapdragons 
and  the  wallflowers  is  overwhelmed  for  a  time  by  the 
blossom  of  the  pear-trees  and  the  plums  which  spread 
themselves  abroad  and  sprawl  even  over  the  top  of 
the  wall.  By  their  aid  the  place  is  transformed  for 
a  whole  month  in  a  fruitful  year.  In  1917  it  was  as 
if  a  terrific  snowstorm  had  visited  us.  It  was  with  us 
as  with  all  our  neighbours,  a  wonderful  year  for 


•••  •  .    ••  /   •  •     *  ^. 
:  '#'•--,  .VM 

£ f •>>>;„'        •  > 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  265 

pears,  apples,  and  plums.  Pink  and  white  and  white 
and  pink  hid  the  world  and  all  that  appertained  to  it 
from  our  eyes,  and  when  the  blossoms  were  shed  we 
were  afraid  to  set  a  foot  upon  the  grass  path :  it  would 
have  been  a  profanity  to  crush  that  delicate  em- 
broidery. It  seemed  as  if  Nature  had  flung  down 
her  copious  mantle  of  fair  white  satin  before  our  feet; 
but  we  bowed  our  heads  conscious  of  our  unworthiness 
and  stood  motionless  in  front  of  that  exquisite  car- 
peting. 

And  then  day  after  day  the  lovely  things  of  the 
wall  that  had  been  hidden  asserted  themselves,  and 
a  soft  wind  swept  the  path  till  all  the  green  of  the 
new  grass  path  flowed  away  at  our  feet,  and  Nature 
seemed  less  virginal.  Then  came  the  babes — revealed 
by  the  fallen  blossoms — plump  little  cherubic  faces  of 
apples,  graver  little  papooses  of  the  russet  Indian 
tint,  which  were  pears,  and  smaller  shy  things  peep- 
ing out  from  among  the  side  shoots,  which  we  could 
hardly  recognise  as  plums;  rather  a  carcanet  of 
chrysoprase  they  seemed,  so  delicately  green  in  their 
early  days,  before  each  of  them  became  like  the  ripe 
Oriental  beauty,  the  nigra  sed  formosa,  of  the  Song 
of  Solomon,  and  for  the  same  reason:  "  Because  the 
sun  hath  looked  upon  me,"  she  cried.  When  the  sun 
had  looked  upon  the  fruit  that  clustered  round  the 
clefts  in  our  wall,  he  was  as  one  of  the  sons  of  God 
who  had  become  aware  for  the  first  time  of  the  fact 
that  the  daughters  of  men  were  fair;  and  the  whole 
aspect  of  the  world  was  changed. 

Is  there  any  part  of  a  garden  that  is  more  beau- 


266  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

tiful  than  the  orchard?  At  every  season  it  is  lovely. 
I  cannot  understand  how  it  is  that  the  place  for  fruit- 
growing is  in  so  many  gardens  kept  away  from  what 
is  called  the  ornamental  part.  I  cannot  understand 
how  it  has  come  about  that  flowering  shrubs  are  wel- 
comed and  flowering  apples  discouraged  in  the  most 
favoured  situations.  When  a  considerable  number  of 
the  former  have  lost  their  blossoms,  they  are  for  the 
rest  of  the  year  as  commonplace  as  is  possible  for  a 
tree  to  be;  but  when  the  apple-blossom  has  gone,  the 
boughs  that  were  pink  take  on  a  new  lease  of  beauty, 
and  the  mellow  glory  of  the  season  of  fruitage  lasts 
for  months.  The  berry  of  the  gorse  which  is  some- 
times called  a  gooseberry,  is  banished  like  a  Northum- 
berland cow-pincher  of  the  romantic  period,  beyond 
the  border;  but  a  well  furnished  gooseberry  bush  is 
as  worthy  of  admiration  as  anything  that  grows  in 
the  best  of  the  borders,  whether  the  fruit  is  green  or 
red.  And  then  look  at  the  fruit  of  the  white  currant 
if  you  give  it  a  place  where  the  sun  can  shine  through 
it — clusters  shining  with  the  soft  light  of  the  Pleiades 
or  the  more  diffuse  Cassiopea;  and  the  red  currants 
—well,  I  suppose  they  are  like  clusters  of  rubies ;  but 
everything  that  is  red  is  said  to  be  like  a  ruby;  why 
not  talk  of  the  red  currant  bush  as  a  firmament  that 
holds  a  thousand  round  fragments  of  a  fractured 
Mars? 

There  was  a  time  in  England  when  a  garden  meant 
a  place  of  fruit  rather  than  flowers,  but  by  some  freak 
of  fashion  it  was  decreed  that  anything  that  appealed 
to  the  sense  of  taste  was  "  not  in  good  taste  " — that 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  267 

was  how  the  warrant  for  the  banishment  of  so  much 
beauty  was  worded—  "  not  in  good  taste."  I  think 
that  the  decree  is  so  closely  in  harmony  with  the  other 
pronouncements  of  the  era  of  mauvaise  honte — the 
era  of  affectations — when  the  "  young  lady  "  was  lan- 
guid and  insipid—  "  of  dwarf  habit,"  as  the  catalogues 
describe  such  a  growth,  and  was  never  allowed  to  be 
a  girl — when  fainting  was  esteemed  one  of  the  highest 
accomplishments  of  the  sex,  and  everything  that  was 
natural  was  pronounced  gross — when  the  sampler, 
the  sandal,  and  the  simper  were  the  outward  and 
visible  signs  of  an  inward  and  affected  femininity: 
visible?  oh,  no;  the  sandal  was  supposed  to  be  invisi- 
ble; if  it  once  appeared  even  to  the  extent  of  a  taper 
toe,  and  attention  was  called  to  its  obtrusion,  there 
was  a  little  shriek  of  horror,  and  the  "  young  lady  " 
was  looked  at  askance  as  demie-vierge.  It  was  so 
much  in  keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  parcel  to  look 
on  something  that  could  be  eaten  as  something 
too  gross  to  be  constantly  in  sight  when  growing 
naturally,  that  I  think  the  banishment  of  the  apple 
and  the  pear  and  the  plum  and  the  gooseberry  to  a 
distant  part  of  the  garden  must  be  regarded  as  be- 
longing to  the  same  period.  But  now  that  the  in- 
delicacy of  the  super-delicacy  of  that  era  has  passed 
— now  that  the  shy  sandal  has  given  place  to  the  well- 
developed  calf  above  the  "  calf  uppers  "  of  utilitarian 
boots — now  that  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman 
(especially  the  young  woman)  discuss  naturally  the 
question  of  eugenics  and  marriage  with  that  freedom 
which  once  was  the  sole  prerogative  of  the  prayer- 


268  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

book,  may  we  not  claim  an  enlargement  of  our  bor- 
ders to  allow  of  the  rehabilitation  of  the  apple  and 
the  repatriation  of  the  pear  in  a  part  of  the  garden 
where  all  can  enjoy  their  decorative  qualities  and 
anticipate  their  gastronomic  without  reproach?  Let 
us  give  the  fruit  its  desserts  and  it  will  return  the 
compliment. 

The  Saxon  earthwork  below  the  grass  walk  is  given 
over  to  what  is  technically  termed  "  the  herbaceous 
border,"  and  over  one  thousand  eight  hundred  square 
feet  there  should  be  such  a  succession  of  flowers  grow- 
ing just  as  they  please,  as  should  delight  the  heart  of 
a  democracy.  The  herbaceous  border  is  the  demo- 
cratic section  of  a  garden.  The  autocrat  of  the 
Dutch  and  the  Formal  gardens  is  not  allowed  to  carry 
out  any  of  his  foul  designs  of  clipping  or  curtailing 
the  freedom  of  Flora  in  this  province.  There  should 
be  no  reminiscences  of  the  tyrant  stake  which  in  far- 
distant  days  of  autocracy  was  a  barrier  to  the  freedom 
of  growth,  nor  should  the  aristocracy  of  the  hot-house 
or  even  the  cool  greenhouse  obtrude  its  educated 
bloom  among  the  lovers  of  liberty.  They  must  be 
allowed  to  do  as  they  damplease,  which  is  a  good 
step  beyond  the  ordinary  doing  as  they  please.  The 
government  of  the  herbaceous  border  is  one  whose 
aim  is  the  glorification  of  the  Mass  as  opposed  to  the 
Individual. 

It  is  not  at  all  a  bad  principle — for  a  garden — this 
principle  which  can  best  be  carried  out  by  the  unprin- 
cipled. English  democracy  includes  princes  and 
principles;  but  there  is  a  species  which  will  have  noth- 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  269 

ing  to  do  with  principles  because  they  reckon  them 
corrupted  by  their  first  syllable,  and  hold  that  the 
aristocrat  is  like  Hamlet's  stepfather,  whose  offence 
was  "  rank  and  smells  to  heaven."  I  have  noticed, 
however,  in  the  growth  of  my  democratic  border  that 
there  are  invariably  a  few  pushing  and  precipitate 
individuals  who  insist  on  having  their  own  way — it  is 
contrary  to  the  spirit  of  Freedom  to  check  them — and 
the  result  is  that  the  harmony  of  the  whole  ceases  to 
exist.  But  there  are  some  people  who  would  prefer 
a  Bolshevist  wilderness  to  any  garden. 

I  have  had  some  experience  of  Herbaceous  Bor- 
ders of  mankind.  .  .  . 

The  beauty  of  the  border  is  to  be  found  in  the 
masses,  we  are  told  in  the  Guides  to  Gardening.  We 
should  not  allow  the  blues  to  mix  with  the  buffs,  and 
the  orange  element  should  not  assert  its  ascendancy 
over  the  green.  But  what  is  the  use  of  laying  down 
hard  and  fast  rules  here  when  the  essence  of  the  con- 
stitution of  the  system  is  No  Rule.  My  experience 
leads  me  to  believe  that  without  a  rule  of  life  and  a 
firm  ruler,  this  portion  of  the. garden  will  become 
in  the  course  of  time  allied  to  the  prairie  or  the  wilder- 
ness, and  the  hue  that  will  prevail  to  the  destruction 
of  any  governing  scheme  of  colour  or  colourable 
scheme  of  government  will  be  Red. 

Which  things  are  an  allegory,  culled  from  a  garden 
of  herbs,  which,  as  we  have  been  told,  will  furnish  a 
dinner  preferable  to  one  that  has  for  its  piece  de  resist- 
ance the  stalled  ox,  providing  that  it  is  partaken  of 
under  certain  conditions  rigidly  defined. 


270  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

We  have  never  been  able  to  bring  our  herbaceous 
border  to  the  point  of  perfection  which  we  are  assured 
by  some  of  those  optimists  who  compile  nurserymen's 
catalogues,  it  should  reach.  We  have  massed  our 
colours  and  nailed  them  to  the  mast,  so  to  speak — 
that  is,  we  have  not  surrendered  our  colour  schemes 
because  we  happen  to  fall  short  of  victory ;  but  still  we 
must  acknowledge  that  the  whole  border  has  never 
been  the  success  that  we  hoped  it  would  be.  Perhaps 
we  have  been  too  exacting — expecting  over  much;  or 
it  may  be  that  our  standard  was  too  Royal  a  one  for 
the  soil;  but  the  facts  remain  and  we  have  a  sense  of 
disappointment. 

It  seems  to  me  that  this  very  popular  feature  de- 
pends too  greatly  upon  the  character  of  the  season  to 
be  truly  successful  as  regards  ensemble.  Our  border 
includes  many  subjects  which  have  ideas  of  their  own 
as  regards  the  weather.  A  dry  spring  season  may 
stunt  (in  its  English  sense)  the  growth  of  some 
flowers  that  occupy  a  considerable  space,  and  are 
meant  to  play  an  important  part  in  the  design; 
whereas  the  same  influence  may  develop  a  stunt  (in 
the  American  sense)  in  a  number  of  others,  thereby 
bringing  about  a  dislocation  of  the  whole  scheme. 
Then  some  things  will  rush  ahead  and  override  their 
neighbours— some  that  lasted  in  good  condition  up  to 
the  October  of  one  year  look  shabby  before  the  end 
of  July  the  next.  One  season  differs  from  another 
on  vital  points  and  the  herbs  differ  in  their  growth 
-I  had  almost  written  their  habit— in  accordance 
with  the  differences  of  the  season.  We  have  had  a 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  271 

fine  show  in  one  place  and  a  shabby  show  next  door; 
we  have  had  a  splendid  iris  season  and  a  wretched 
peony  season — bare  patches  beside  luxuriant  patches. 
The  gailardias  have  broken  out  of  bounds  one  sum- 
mer, and  when  we  left  "  ample  verge  and  room 
enough  "  for  them  the  next,  they  turned  sulky,  and 
the  result  was  a  wide  space  of  soil  on  which  a  score 
of  those  gamins  of  the  garden,  chickweed  and  dande- 
lion, promptly  began  operations,  backed  up  by  those 
apaches  of  a  civilised  borderland,  the  ragged  robin, 
and  we  had  to  be  strenuous  in  our  surveillance  of  the 
place,  fearful  that  a  riot  might  ruin  all  that  we  had 
taken  pains  to  bring  to  perfection.  So  it  has  been 
season  after  season — one  part  quite  beautiful,  a  sec- 
ond only  middling,  and  a  third  utterly  unresponsive. 
That  is  why  we  have  taken  to  calling  it  the  facetious 
border. 

Our  experience  leads  us  to  look  on  this  facetious 
herbaceous  border  as  the  parson's  daughter  looks  on 
the  Sunday  School — as  a  place  for  the  development  of 
all  that  is  tricky  in  Nature,  with  here  and  there  a 
bunch  of  clean  collars  and  tidy  trimmings — some- 
thing worth  carrying  on  over,  but  not  to  wax  en- 
thusiastic over.  So  we  mean  to  carry  on,  and  take 
Flora's  "  buffets  and  awards  "  "  with  equal  thanks." 
We  shall  endeavour  to  make  our  unruly  tract  in  some 
measure  tractable;  and,  after  all,  where  is  the  joy  of 
gardening  apart  from  the  trying?  It  was  a  great 
philosopher  who  affirmed  at  the  close  of  a  long  life, 
that  if  he  were  starting  his  career  anew  and  the  choice 
were  offered  to  him  between  the  Truth  and  the  Pur- 


272  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

suit  of  Truth,  he  would  certainly  choose  the  latter. 
That  man  had  the  true  gardening  spirit. 

Any  one  who  enters  a  garden  without  feeling  that 
he  is  entering  a  big  household  of  children,  should  stay 
outside  and  make  a  friend  of  the  angel  who  was  set 
at  the  gate  of  the  first  Paradise  with  a  flaming  sword, 
which  I  take  it  was  a  gladiolus— the  gladiolus  is  the 
gladius  of  flowerland— to  keep  fools  on  the  outside. 
The  angel  and  the  proper  man  will  get  on  very  well 
together  at  the  garden  gate,  talking  of  things  that  are 
within  the  scope  of  the  intelligence  of  angels  and  men 
who  think  doormats  represent  Nature  in  that  they  are 
made  of  cocoa-nut  fibre.  We  have  long  ago  come  to 
look  on  the  garden  as  a  region  of  living  things- 
shouting  children,  riotous  children,  sulky  children; 
children  who  are  rebellious,  perverse,  impatient  at  re- 
striction, bad-tempered,  quarrelsome,  but  ever  ready 
to  "  make  it  up,"  and  fling  themselves  into  your  arms 
and  give  you  a  chance  of  sharing  with  them  the  true 
joy  of  life  which  is  theirs. 

This  is  what  a  garden  of  flowers  means  to  any  one 
who  enters  it  in  a  proper  spirit  of  comradeship,  and 
not  in  the  attitude  of  a  School  Inspector.  We  go 
into  the  garden  not  to  educate  the  flowers,  but  to  be 
beloved  by  them — to  make  companions  of  them  and, 
if  they  will  allow  us,  to  share  some  of  the  secrets  they 
guard  so  jealously  until  they  find  some  one  whom  they 
feel  they  can  trust  implicitly.  A  garden  is  like  the 
object  of  Dryden's  satire,  "  Not  one,  but  all  man- 
kind's epitome,"  and  a  knowledge  of  men  that  makes 
a  man  a  sympathetic  gardener.  I  think  that  Christ 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  273 

was  as  fond  of  gardens  as  God  ever  was.  "  Consider 
the  lilies  of  the  field,  how  they  grow:  they  toil  not 
neither  do  they  spin,  and  yet  I  say  unto  you  that  even 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one 
of  these." 

There  is  the  glorious  charter  of  the  garden,  the 
truth  of  which  none  can  dispute — there  is  the  revela- 
tion of  the  spirit  of  the  garden  delivered  to  men  by  the 
wisest  and  the  most  sympathetic  garden-lover  that 
ever  sought  a  Gethsemane  for  communion  with  the 
Father  of  all,  in  an  hour  of  trial. 

I  wonder  what  stores  of  knowledge  of  plant-life 
existed  among  the  wise  Orientals  long  ago.  Were 
they  aware  of  all  that  we  suppose  has  only  been  re- 
vealed to  us — "  discovered "  by  us  within  recent 
years?  Did  they  know  that  there  is  no  dividing  line 
between  the  various  elements  of  life — between  man, 
who  is  the  head  of  "  the  brute  creation,"  and  the  crea- 
tures of  what  the  books  of  my  young  days  styled  "  the 
Vegetable  Kingdom "  ?  Did  they  know  that  it  is 
possible  for  a  tree  to  have  a  deeper  love  for  its  mate 
than  a  man  has  for  the  wife  whom  he  cherishes?  I 
made  the  acquaintance  some  years  ago  of  an  Eastern 
tree  which  was  brought  away  from  his  family  in  the 
forest  and,  though  placed  in  congenial  soil,  remained, 
for  years  making  no  advance  in  growth — living,  but 
nothing  more — until  one  day  a  thoughtful  man  who 
had  spent  years  studying  plants  of  the  East,  brought 
a  female  companion  to  that  tree,  and  had  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  "  him  "  assume  a  growth  which  was 
maintained  year  by  year  alongside  "  her,"  until  they 


274  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

were  both  shown  to  me  rejoicing  together,  the  one 
vicing  with  the  other  in  luxuriance  of  foliage  and 
fruit.  Every  one  who  has  grown  apples  or  plums 
has  had  the  same  experience.  We  all  know  now  of 
the  courtship  and  the  love  and  the  marriage  of  things 
in  "  the  Vegetable  Kingdom,"  and  we  know  that  there 
is  no  difference  in  the  process  of  that  love  which  means 
life  in  "  the  Animal  Kingdom  "  and  "  the  Vegetable 
Kingdom."  In  some  directions  their  "  human  "  feel- 
ings and  emotions  and  passions  have  been  made  plain 
to  us;  how  much  more  we  shall  learn  it  is  impossible 
to  tell ;  but  we  know  enough  to  save  us  from  the  error 
of  fancying  that  they  have  a  different  existence  from 
ours,  and  every  day  that  one  spends  in  a  garden  makes 
us  ready  to  echo  Shelley's  lyrical  shout  of  "  Beloved 
Brotherhood!" 

That  is  what  I  feel  when  I  am  made  the  victim  of 
some  of  the  pranks  of  the  gay  creatures  of  the  her- 
baceous border,  who  amuse  themselves  at  our  expense, 
refusing  to  be  bound  down  to  our  restrictions,  to 
travel  the  way  we  think  good  plants  should  go,  and 
declining  to  be  guided  by  an  intelligence  which  they 
know  to  be  inferior  to  their  own.  The  story  of  the 
wilful  gourd  which  would  insist  on  crossing  a  garden 
path  in  the  direction  it  knew  to  be  the  right  one, 
though  a  human  intelligence  tried  to  make  it  go  in 
another,  was  told  by  an  astonished  naturalist  in  the 
pages  of  Country  Life  a  short  time  ago.  I  hope  it 
was  widely  read.  The  knowledge  that  such  things 
can  be  will  give  many  thousand  readers  access  to  a 
field  of  study  and  of  that  legitimate  speculation  which 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  275 

is  the  result  of  study  and  observation.  It  will  ever 
tend  to  mitigate  the  disappointment  some  of  us  may 
be  inclined  to  harbour  when  we  witness  our  floral 
failures,  though  it  is  questionable  if  the  recognition 
of  the  fact  that  our  failures  are  due  to  our  own  stupid 
bungling,  will  diminish  the  store  of  that  self-conceit 
which  long  ago  induced  us  to  think  of  ourselves  as  the 
sole  raison  d'etre  of  all  Creation. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-THIRD 

WE  were  working  at  the  young  campanulas  when  our 
friend  Heywood  came  upon  us — Heywood,  for  whose 
intelligence  we  have  so  great  a  respect,  because  he  so 
frequently  agrees  with  our  outlook  upon  the  world  of 
woman  and  other  flowers  cherished  by  us.  Heywood 
is  a  good  artist;  but  because  he  believes  that  Woman- 
kind is  a  kind  woman  indefinitely  multiplied,  he  paints 
more  faithful  portraits  of  men  than  of  women ;  he  also 
paints  landscapes  that  live  more  faithfully  than  the 
human  features  that  he  depicts  and  receives  large 
sums  for  depicting.  He  is  a  student  of  children,  and 
comes  to  Rosamund  quite  seriously  for  her  criticism. 
She  gives  it  unaffectedly,  I  am  glad  to  notice;  and 
without  having  to  make  use  of  a  word  of  the  School- 
of-Art  phraseology. 

We  have  an  able  surgeon  (retired)  living  close  to 
us  here,  and  he  is  still  so  interested  in  the  Science  he 
practised — he  retired  from  the  practice,  not  from  the 
science — that  when  he  is  made  aware  of  an  unusual 
operation  about  to  be  performed  in  any  direction — 
London,  Paris,  or  (not  recently)  Vienna,  he  goes  off 
to  witness  the  performance,  just  as  we  go  to  some  of 
the  most  interesting  premieres  in  town.  In  the  same 
spirit  Heywood  runs  off  every  now  and  again  to  Paris 


276 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  277 

to  see  the  latest  production  of  his  old  master,  or  the 
acquisition  of  an  old  Master  at  one  of  the  galleries. 
It  lets  him  know  what  is  going  on  in  the  world,  he 
says,  and  I  am  sure  he  is  quite  right. 

But,  of  course,  Atheist  Friswell  has  his  smile — a 
solemn  smile  it  is  this  time — while  he  says, — 

"  Old  Masters?    Young  mississes  rather,  I  think." 
'  Young  what?  "  cried  Dorothy.  ' 

"  Mysteries,"  he  replied.  "  What  on  earth  do  you 
think  I  said? " 

"  Another  word  with  the  same  meaning,"  says  she. 

But  these  artistic  excursions  have  nothing  to  do 
with  us  among  our  campanulas  to-day.  Heywood  has 
been  aware  of  a  funny  thing  and  came  to  make  us 
laugh  with  him. 

"  Campanulas!  "  he  cried.  "  And  that  is  just  what 
I  came  to  tell  you  about — the  campanile  at  St.  Kath- 
erine's." 

Yardley  Parva,  in  common  with  Venice,  Florence, 
and  a  number  of  other  places,  has  a  campanile,  only 
it  was  not  designed  by  Giotto  or  any  other  artist. 
Nor  is  it  even  called  a  campanile,  but  a  bell-tower, 
and  it  belongs  to  the  Church  of  St.  Katherine-sub- 
Castro — a  Norman  church  transformed  by  a  few 
adroit  touches  here  and  there  into  the  purest  Gothic 
of  the  Restoration — the  Gilbert  Scott-Church-Resto- 
ration period. 

But  no  one  would  complain  with  any  measure  of 
bitterness  at  the  existence  of  the  bell-tower  only  for 
the  fact  that  there  are  bells  within  it,  and  these  bells 
being  eight,  lend  themselves  to  many  feats  of  cam- 


278  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

panotogy,  worrying  the  inhabitants  within  a  large 
area  round  about  the  low  levels  of  the  town.  The 
peace  of  every  Sabbath  Day  is  rudely  broken  by  the 
violence  of  what  the  patient  folk  with  no  arrfcre 
pensee  term  "them  joy  bells." 
«  You  have  not  heard  a  sound  of  them  for  some 

Sundays,"  said  Heywood. 
"I  have  not  complained,"  said  I.    "  Ask  Dorothy 

if  I  have." 

"No  one  has,  unless  the  bell-ringers,  who  are  get- 
ting flabby  through  lack  of  exercise,"  said  he.  '  But 
the  reason  you  have  not  heard  them  is  because  they 
have  been  sflent." 

" '  The  British  Fleet  you  cannot  see,  for  it  is  not  in 
sight,'"  said  I. 

-  And  the  reason  that  they  have  been  silent  was  the 
serious  illness  of  Mr.  Livesay,  whose  house  is  close  to 
St.  Katherine's.  Dr.  Beecher  prescribed  complete 
repose  for  poor  Livesay,  and  as  the  joy  bells  of  St. 
Katherine's  do  not  promote  that  condition,  his  wife 
sent  a  message  to  the  ringers  asking  them  to  oblige 
by  refraining  from  their  customary  uproar  until 
the  doctor  should  remove  his  ban.  They  did  so  two 
Sundays  ago,  and  the  Sunday  before  last  they  sent 
to  inquire  how  the  man  was.  He  was  a  good  deal 
worse,  they  were  told,  so  they  were  cheated  out  of 
their  exercise  again.  Yesterday,  however,  they  rang 
merrily  out — merrily." 

"  We  heard,"  said  Dorothy.    "  So  I  suppose  Mr. 
Livesay  is  better." 
"On  tiie  contrary,  he  is  dead,"  said  Heywood. 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  279 

"  He  died  late  on  Saturday  night.  My  housekeeper, 
Mrs.  Hartwell,  had  just  brought  me  in  my  breakfast 
when  the  bells  began.  '  Listen,'  she  cried.  '  Listen! 
the  joy  bells!  Mr.  Livesay  must  have  died  last 
night.' " 

It  was  true.  The  bell-ringers  had  made  their  call 
at  poor  Livesay's  house  on  Sunday  morning,  and  on 
receiving  the  melancholy  news,  they  hurried  off  to  let 
their  joy  bells  proclaim  it  far  and  wide. 

But  no  one  in  Yardley  Parva,  lay  or  clerical,  except 
Heywood  and  ourselves  seemed  to  think  that  there 
was  anything  singular  in  the  incident. 

We  had  a  few  words  to  say,  however,  about  joy 
bells  spreading  abroad  the  sad  news  of  a  decent  man's 
death,  and  upon  campanology  in  general. 

But  when  Friswell  heard  of  the  affair,  he  said  he 
did  not  think  it  more  foolish  than  the  usual  practice 
of  church  beHs. 

"We  all  know,  of  course,  that  there  is  nothing 
frightens  the  devil  like  the  ringing  of  bells,"  said  he. 

"  That  is  quite  plausible,"  said  I.  "  Any  one  who 
doubts  it  must  have  lived  all  his  life  in  a  heathen 
place  where  there  are  no  churches.  Juan  Fernandez, 
for  example,"  I  added,  as  a  couple  of  lines  sang 
through  my  recollection.  "  Cowper  made  his  Alex- 
ander Selkirk  long  for  'the  sound  of  the  church- 
going  bell.' ' 

"  That  was  a  good  touch  of  Cowper's,"  said  Fris- 
well. "  He  knew  that  Alexander  Selkirk  was  a  Scots- 
man, and  with  much  of  the  traditional  sanctimonious- 
ness of  his  people,  when  he  found  himself  awfu*  bad 


280  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

or  muckle  bad  or  whatever  the  right  phrase  is,  he  was 
ready  to  propitiate  heaven  by  a  pious  aspiration." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  cried  Dorothy.  '  He  was 
quite  sincere.  Cowper  knew  that  there  is  nothing  that 
brings  back  recollections  of  childhood,  which  we 
always  think  was  the  happiest  time  of  our  life,  like  the 
chiming  of  church  bells." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  said  he,  after  a  little 
pause.  "  But  like  many  other  people,  poet  Cowper 
did  not  think  of  the  church  bells  except  in  regard  to 
their  secondary  function  of  summoning  people  to  the 
sacred  precincts.  He  probably  never  knew  that  the 
original  use  of  the  bells  was  to  scare  away  the  Evil 
One.  It  was  only  when  they  found  out  that  he  had 
never  any  temptation  to  enter  a  church,  that  the 
authorities  turned  their  devil-scaring  bells  to  the  sum- 
moning of  the  worshippers,  and  they  have  kept  up 
the  foolish  practice  ever  since." 

"Why  foolish?"  asked  Dorothy  quite  affably. 
'  You  don't  consider  it  foolish  to  ring  a  bell  to  go  to 
dinner,  and  why  should  you  think  it  so  in  the  matter 
of  going  to  church  ?  " 

"  My  dear  creature,  you  don't  keep  ringing  your 
dinner  bell  for  half  an  hour,  with  an  extra  five  min- 
utes for  the  cook." 

"  No,"  said  she  quickly.  "  And  why  not?  Because 
people  don't  need  any  urging  to  come  to  dinner,  but 
they  require  a  good  deal  to  go  to  church,  and  then 
they  don't  go." 

'  There's  something  in  that,"  said  he.  "  Anyhow 
they've  been  ringing  those  summoning  bells  so  long 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  281 

that  I'm  sure  they  will  go  on  with  them  until  all 
the  churches  are  turned  into  school-houses." 

"  And  then  there  will  be  a  passing-bell  rung  for 
the  passing  of  the  churches  themselves — I  suppose  the 
origin  of  the  passing-bell  was  the  necessity  to  scare 
away  the  devil  at  the  supreme  moment,"  remarked 
Hey  wood. 

"  Undoubtedly  it  was,"  said  Friswell.  "  The  prac- 
tice exists  among  many  of  those  races  that  are  still 
savage  enough  to  believe  in  the  devil — a  good  hand- 
made tom-tom  does  the  business  quite  effectually, 
I've  heard." 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Friswell,  I  think  that 
when  you  sit  down  with  us  in  our  Garden  of  Peace, 
the  conversation  usually  takes  the  form  of  the  dia- 
logue in  Magnall's  Questions  or  the  Child's  Guide 
or  Joyce's  Science.  You  are  so  full  of  promiscuous 
information  which  you  cannot  hide?  " 

He  roared  in  laughter,  and  we  all  joined  in. 
'  You  have  just  said  what  my  wife  says  to  me 
daily,"   said   he.     "  I'll   try   to   repress   myself   in 
future." 

"  Don't  try  to  do  anything  of  the  sort,"  cried  Doro- 
thy. '  You  never  cease  to  be  interesting,  no  matter 
how  erudite  you  are." 

"  What  I  can't  understand  is,  how  he  has  escaped 
assassination  all  these  years,"  remarked  Heywood. 
"  I  think  the  time  is  coming  when  whoso  slayeth  Fris- 
well will  think  that  he  doeth  God's  service.  Just 
think  all  of  you  of  the  mental  state  of  the  man  who 
fails  to  see  that,  however  heathenish  may  be  the  prac- 


282  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

tice  of  church-bell-ringing,  the  fact  that  it  has 
brought  into  existence  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
buildings  in  the  world  makes  the  world  its  debtor  for 
evermore! " 

"  I  take  back  all  my  words— I  renounce  the  devil 
and  all  his  work,"  cried  the  other  man.  '  Yes,  I  hold 
that  Giotto's  Campanile  justifies  all  the  clashing  and 
banging  and  hammering  before  and  since.  On  the 
same  analogy  I  believe  with  equal  sincerity  that  the 
Temple  of  Jupiter  fully  justifies  the  oblations  to  the 
Father  of  gods,  and  the  Mosque  of  Omar  the  mas- 
sacres of  Islam." 

"  Go  on/'  said  Dorothy.  "  Say  that  the  sufferings 
of  Alexander  Selkirk  were  justified  since  without 
them  we  should  not  have  Robinson  Crusoe/' 

"  I  will  say  anything  you  please,  my  Lady  of  the 
Garden,"  said  he  heartily.  "  I  will  say  that  the  beauty 
of  that  border  beside  you  justifies  Wakeley's  lavish 
advertisements  of  Hop  Mixture." 

I  felt  that  this  sort  of  thing  had  gone  on  long 
enough,  so  I  made  a  hair-pin  bend  in  the  conversation 
by  asking  Dorothy  if  she  remembered  the  day  of  our 
visit  to  Robinson  Crusoe's  island. 

"  I  never  knew  that  you  had  been  to  Juan  Fer- 
nandez," said  Friswell. 

And  then  I  saw  how  I  could  score  off  Friswell. 

"  I  said  Robinson  Crusoe's  island,  not  Alexander 
Selkirk's,"  I  cried.  "  Alexander  Selkirk's  was  Juan 
Fernandez,  Robinson  Crusoe's  was  Tobago  in  the 
West  Indies,  which  Dorothy  and  I  explored  some 
years  ago." 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  283 

"  Of  course  I  should  have  remembered  that,"  said 
he.  "  I  recollect  now  what  a  stumbling-block  to  me 
the  geography  of  Robinson  Crusoe  was  when  I  first 
read  the  book.  A  foolish  explanatory  preface  to  the 
cheap  copy  I  read  gave  a  garbled  version  of  the  story 
of  Selkirk  and  his  island,  and  said  no  word  about 
Daniel  Defoe  having  been  wise  enough  to  change 
Juan  Fernandez  for  another." 

'  You  were  no  worse  than  the  writer  of  a  para- 
graph I  read  in  one  of  the  leading  papers  a  short 
time  ago,  relative  to  the  sale  of  the  will  which  Selkirk 
made  in  the  year  1717 — years  after  Captain  Woodes 
Rodgers  had  picked  him  up  at  the  island  where  he 
had  been  marooned  nearly  four  years  before,"  said 
Dorothy,  who,  I  remembered,  had  laughed  over  the 
erudition  of  the  paragraph.  '  The  writer  affirmed 
that  the  will  had  been  made  before  the  man  *  had 
sailed  unwittingly  for  Tristan  d'Acunha ' — those 
were  his  exact  words,  and  this  island  he  seemed  to 
identify  with  Bishop  Heber's,  for  he  said  it  was 
*  where  every  prospect  pleases  and  only  man  is  vile.' 
What  was  in  the  poor  man's  mind  was  the  fact  that 
some  one  had  written  a  poem  about  Alexander  Sel- 
kirk, and  he  mixed  Cowper  up  with  Heber." 

"  You  didn't  write  to  the  paper  to  put  the  fellow 
right,"  said  Hey  wood. 

"  Good  gracious,  no !  "  cried  Dorothy.  "  I  knew 
that  no  one  in  these  aeroplaning  days  would  care 
whether  the  island  was  Tristan  d'Acunha  or  Juan 
Fernandez.  Besides,  there  was  too  much  astray  in 
the  paragraph  for  a  simple  woman  to  set  about  mak- 


284  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

ing  good.    Anyhow  the  document  fetched  £60  at  the 

oo  Jp 

"  You  remember  the  lesson  that  was  learnt  by  the 
man  who  wrote  to  correct  something  a  newspaper 
had  written  about  him,"  said  Heywood.  'The 
editor  called  me  a  swindler,  a  liar,  and  a  politician,' 
said  he,  relating  his  experience,  '  and  like  a  fool  I 
wrote  to  contradict  it.  I  was  a  fool:  for  what  did 
the  fellow  do  in  the  very  next  issue  but  prove  every 
statement  that  he  had  made! ' 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  lucky  that  I  didn't  write  to  that 
paper? "  cried  Dorothy. 

But  when  we  began  to  talk  of  the  imaginary  suf- 
ferings of  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  to  try  to  imagine 
what  were  the  real  sufferings  of  Selkirk,  Friswell 
laughed,  saying, — 

"  I'm  pretty  sure  that  what  the  bonnie  Scots  body 
suffered  from  most  poignantly  was  the  island  not  hav- 
ing any  of  his  countrymen  at  hand,  so  that  they  could 
start  a  Burns  Club  or  a  Caledonian  Society,  as  the 
six  representatives  of  Scotland  are  about  to  do  in  our 
town  of  Yardley,  which  has  hitherto  been  free  from 
anything  of  that  sort.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  story 
of  Andrew  Gareloch  and  Alec  MacClackan?  " 

We  assured  him  that  we  had  never  heard  a  word 
of  it. 

He  told  it  to  us,  and  this  is  what  it  amounted  to : — 

Messrs.  Andrew  Gareloch  and  Alec  MacClackan 
were  merchants  of  Shanghai  who  were  unfortunate 
enough  to  be  wrecked  on  their  voyage  home.  They 
were  the  sole  survivors  of  the  ship's  company,  and 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  285 

the  desert  island  on  which  they  found  themselves  was 
in  the  Pacific,  only  a  few  miles  in  circumference. 
In  the  lagoon  were  plenty  of  fish  and  on  the  ridge  of 
the  slope  were  plenty  of  cocoa-nuts.  After  a  good 
meal  they  determined  to  name  the  place.  They  called 
it  St.  Andrew  Lang  Syne  Island,  and  became  as  fes- 
tive and  brotherly — they  pronounced  it  "  britherly  " 
— as  was  possible  over  cocoa-nut  milk:  it  was  a  long 
time  since  either  of  them  had  tasted  milk  of  any  sort. 
The  second  day  they  founded  a  local  Benevolent  So- 
ciety of  St.  Andrew,  and  held  the  inaugural  dinner; 
the  third  day  they  founded  a  Burns  Club,  with  a 
supper;  the  fourth  day  they  starts  a  Scots  Associa- 
tion, with  a  series  of  monthly  reunions  for  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  Minstrelsy  of  the  Border;  the  fifth  day 
they  laid  out  golf  links  with  the  finest  bunkers  in 
the  world,  and  instituted  a  club  lunch  (strictly  non- 
alcoholic) ;  the  sixth  day  they  formed  a  Curling  Club 
— the  lagoon  would  make  a  braw  rink,  they  said,  if 
it  only  froze ;  and  if  it  didn't  freeze,  well,  they  could 
still  have  an  annual  Curlers'  Supper;  the  Seventh 
Day  they  kept.  On  the  evening  of  the  same  day  a 
vessel  was  sighted  bearing  up  for  the  island;  but  of 
course  neither  of  the  men  would  hoist  a  signal  on  the 
Seventh  Day,  and  they  watched  the  craft  run  past 
the  island;  though  they  were  amazed  to  see  that  she 
had  only  courses  and  a  foresail  set,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  the  breeze  was  a  light  one.  The  next  morning, 
when  they  were  sitting  at  breakfast,  discussing 
whether  they  should  lay  the  foundation  stone — with 
a  commemorative  lunch — of  a  Free  Kirk,  a  Wee  Free 


286  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

Kirk,  a  U.P.  meeting-house  or  an  Ould  Licht  meet- 
ing-house—they had  been  fiercely  debating  on  the 
merits  of  each  during  the  previous  twenty  years— 
they  saw  the  vessel  returning  with  all  sail  on  her.  To 
run  up  one  of  their  shirts  to  a  pole  at  the  entrance 
to  the  lagoon  was  a  matter  of  a  moment,  and  they 
saw  that  their  signal  was  responded  to.  She  was 
steered  by  their  signals  through  the  entrance  to  the 
lagoon  and  dropped  anchor. 

She  turned  out  to  be  the  Bonnie  Doon,  of  Dundee, 
Douglas  MacKellar,  Master.  He  had  found  wreck- 
age out  at  sea  and  had  thought  it  possible  that  some 
survivors  of  the  wreck  might  want  passages  "  hame." 

"  Nae,  nae,"  cried  both  men.  '  We're  no  in  need  o' 
passages  hame  just  the  noo.  But  what  for  did  ye  no 
mak'  for  the  lagoon  yestreen  in  the  gloamin'  ?  " 

"  Hoot  awa' — hoot  awa' !  ye  wouldna  hae  me  come 
ashore  on  the  Sawbath  Day,"  said  Captain  Mac- 
Kellar. 

*  Ye  shortened  sail  though,"  said  Mr.  MacClackan. 

"  Ay ;  on  Saturday  nicht :  I  never  let  her  do  more 
than  just  sail  on  the  Sawbath.  But  what  for  did  ye 
no  run  up  a  signal,  ye  loons,  if  ye  spied  me  sae  weel?  " 

"  Hoot  awa' — hoot  awa',  man,  ye  wouldna  hae  a 
body  mak'  a  signal  on  the  Sawbath  Day." 

"  Na— na;  no  a  reg'lar  signal;  but  ye  micht  hae  run 
up  a  wee  bittie — just  eneuch  tae  catch  me  e'en  on. 
Ay  an'  mebbe  ye'll  be  steppin'  aboard  the  noo?  " 

"  We'll  hae  to  hae  a  clash  about  it,  Captain." 

Well,  they  talked  it  over  cautiously  for  a  few 
hours;  for  Captain  MacKellar  was  a  hard  man  at  a 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  287 

bargain,  and  he  would  not  agree  to  give  them  a  pass- 
age under  two  pound  a  head.  At  last,  however,  nego- 
tiations were  concluded,  the  men  got  aboard  the 
Bonnie  Doon,  and  piloted  her  through  the  channel. 
They  reached  the  Clyde  in  safety,  and  Captain  Mac- 
Kellar  remarked, — 

"  Weel,  ma  freens,  I'm  in  hopes  that  ye'll  pay  me 
ower  the  siller  this  day." 

"  Ay,  ye  maun  be  in  the  quare  swithers  till  ye  see 
the  siller;  but  we'll  hand  it  ower,  certes,"  said  the 
passengers.  "  In  the  meantime,  we'd  tak'  the  leeberty 
o'  callin'  your  attention  to  a  wee  bit  contra-claim  that 
we  hae  japped  doon  on  a  bit  slip  o'  paper.  It's  three 
poon  nine  for  Harbour  Dues  that  ye  owe  us,  Captain 
MacKellar,  and  twa  poon  ten  for  pilotage — it's  com- 
pulsory at  yon  island,  so  'tis,  so  mebbe  ye'll  mak'  it 
convenient  to  hand  us  ower  the  differs  when  we  land. 
Ay,  Douglas  MacKellar,  ma  mon,  ye  shouldna  try 
to  get  the  better  o'  Brither-Scots !  " 

Captain  MacKellar  was  a  God-fearing  man,  but  he 
said,  "  Dom! " 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FOURTH 

WHATEVER  my  garden  may  be,  I  think  I  can  honestly 
claim  for  it  that  it  has  no  educational  value.  The 
educational  garden  is  one  in  which  all  the  different 
orders  and  classes  and  groups  and  species  and  genera 
are  displayed  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  no  display, 
but  to  enable  an  ordinary  person  in  the  course  of  ten 
or  twelve  years  to  become  a  botanist.  Botany  is  the 
syntax  of  the  garden.  A  man  may  know  everything 
about  syntax  and  yet  never  become  a  poet;  and  a 
garden  should  be  a  poem. 

I  remember  how  a  perfect  poem  of  a  garden  was 
translated  into  the  most  repulsively  correct  prose  by 
the  exertions  of  a  botanist.  It  was  in  a  semi-public 
pleasure  ground  maintained  by  subscribers  of  a  guinea 
each,  and  of  course  it  was  administered  by  a  Commit- 
tee. After  many  years  of  failure,  an  admirable  head- 
gardener  was  found— a  young  and  enthusiastic  man 
with  an  eye  for  design  and  an  appreciation  of  form  as 
well  as  colour.  Within  a  short  space  of  time  he  turned 
a  commonplace  pleasure-ground  into  a  thing  of  beauty ; 
and,  not  content  with  making  the  enormous  domed 
conservatory  and  the  adjoining  hothouse  a  blaze  of 
colour  and  fragrance,  he  attacked  an  old  worn-out 
greenhouse  and,  without  asking  for  outside  assistance, 

288 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  289 

transformed  it  into  a  natural  sub-tropical  landscape 
— palms  and  cacti  and  giant  New  Zealand  ferns, 
growing  amid  rocky  surroundings,  and  wonderful 
lilies  filling  a  large  natural  basin,  below  an  effective 
cascade.  The  place  was  just  what  such  a  place  should 
be,  conveying  the  best  idea  possible  to  have  of  a  moist 
corner  of  a  tropical  forest,  only  without  the  over- 
whelming shabbiness  which  was  the  most  striking  note 
of  every  tropical  forest  I  have  ever  seen  in  a  natural 
condition.  In  addition  to  its  attractiveness  in  this 
respect,  it  would  have  become  a  source  of  financial 
profit  to  the  subscribers,  for  the  annual  "  thinning 
out "  of  its  superfluous  growths  would  mean  the 
stocking  of  many  private  conservatories. 

On  the  Committee  of  Management,  however,  there 
was  one  gentleman  whose  aim  in  life  was  to  be  re- 
garded by  his  fellow-tradesmen  as  a  great  botanist: 
he  was,  to  a  great  botanist,  what  the  writer  of  the 
cracker  mottoes  is  to  a  great  poet,  or  the  compiler  of 
the  puzzle-page  of  a  newspaper  is  to  a  great  mathe- 
matician; but  he  was  capable  of  making  a  fuss  and 
convincing  a  bunch  of  tradesmen  that  making  a  fuss 
is  a  proof  of  superiority ;  and  that  botany  and  beauty 
are  never  to  be  found  in  association.  He  condemned 
the  tropical  garden  as  an  abomination,  because  it  was 
impossible  that  a  place  which  could  give  hospitality 
to  a  growth  of  New  Zealand  fern  (Phormium 
.  Hookeri) ,  should  harbour  a  sago  palm  (  Metroxylon 
Elatum ) ,  which  was  not  indigenous  to  New  Zealand ; 
and  then  he  went  on  to  talk  about  the  obligations  of 
the  place  to  be  educational  and  not  ornamental,  show- 


290  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

ing  quite  plainly  that  to  be  botanical  should  be  the 
highest  aim  of  any  one  anxious  for  the  welfare  of  his 

country. 

The  result  of  his  harangue  was  the  summoning  of 
the  head-gardener  before  the  Board  and  his  condem- 
nation on  the  ground  that  he  had  put  the  Beautiful 
in  the  place  that  should  be  occupied  by  the  Educa- 
tional. He  was  ordered  to  abandon  that  unauthorised 
hobby  of  his  for  gratifying  the  senses  of  foolish  people 
who  did  not  know  the  difference  between  Phormium 
Hookeri  and  Metroxylon  Elatum,  and  to  set  to  work 
to  lay  out  an  Educational  Garden. 

He  looked  at  the  members  of  the  Board,  and,  like 
the  poker  player  who  said,  "  I  pass,"  when  he  heard 
who  had  dealt  the  cards,  he  made  no  attempt  to  de- 
fend himself.  He  laid  out  the  Educational  Garden 
that  was  required  of  him,  and  when  he  had  done  so 
and  the  Board  thought  that  he  was  resigned  to  his 
fate  as  the  interpreter  of  the  rules  of  prosody  as  ap- 
plied to  a  garden,  he  handed  in  his  resignation,  and 
informed  them  that  he  had  accepted  a  situation  as 
Curator  of  a  park  in  a  rival  town,  and  at  a  salary — 
a  Curator  gets  a  salary  and  a  gardener  only  wages — 
of  exactly  double  the  sum  granted  to  him  by  the 
employers  from  whom  he  was  separating  himself. 

In  three  years  the  place  he  left  had  become  bank- 
rupt and  was  wound  up.  It  was  bought  at  a  "  scrap- 
ping "  figure  by  the  Municipality,  and  its  swings  are 
now  said  to  be  the  highest  in  five  counties. 

I  saw  the  Educational  Garden  that  he  laid  out,  and 
I  knew,  and  so  did  he,  that  he  was  "  laying  out  "—the 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  291 

undertaker's  phrase — the  whole  concern.  When  he 
had  completed  it,  I  felt  that  I  could  easily  resist  the 
temptation  to  introduce  education  at  the  expense  of 
design  into  any  garden  of  mine. 

It  is  undeniable  that  a  place  constructed  on  such  a 
botanical  system  may  be  extremely  interesting  to  a 
number  of  students,  and  especially  so  to  druggists' 
apprentices;  but  turning  to  so-called  "educational 
purposes  "  a  piece  of  garden  that  can  grow  roses,  is 
like  using  the  silk  of  an  embroiderer  to  darn  the  cor- 
duroys of  a  railway  porter. 

But  it  was  a  revelation  to  some  people  how  the 
growing  of  war-time  vegetables  where  only  flowers 
had  previously  been  grown,  was  not  out  of  harmony 
with  the  design  of  a  garden.  I  must  confess  that  it 
was  with  some  misgiving  that  I  planted  rows  of  run- 
ner beans  in  a  long  wall  border  which  had  formerly 
been  given  over  to  annuals,  and  globe  artichokes 
where  lilies  did  once  inhabit — I  even  went  so  far  as  to 
sow  carrots  in  lines  between  the  echeverias  of  the 
stone-edged  beds,  and  lettuces  at  the  back  of  my 
fuchsia  bushes.  But  the  result  from  an  aesthetic 
standpoint  was  so  gratifying  that  I  have  not  ceased 
to  wonder  why  such  beautiful  things  should  be  treated 
as  were  the  fruit-trees,  and  looked  on  as  steerage  pas- 
sengers are  by  the  occupants  of  the  fifty-guinea  state- 
rooms of  a  fashionable  Cunarder.  The  artichoke  is 
really  a  garden  inmate;  alongside  the  potatoes  in  the 
kitchen  garden,  it  is  like  the  noble  Sir  Pelleas  who 
was  scullery-maid  in  King  Arthur's  household.  The 
globe  artichoke  is  like  one  of  those  British  peers  whom 


292  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

we  hear  of — usually  when  they  have  just  died — as 
serving  in  the  forecastle  of  a  collier  tramp.  It  is  a 
lordly  thing,  and,  I  have  found,  it  makes  many  of  the 
most  uppish  forms  in  the  flower  garden  hide  dimin- 
ished heads.  An  edging  of  dwarf  cabbages  of  some 
varieties  is  quite  as  effective  as  one  of  box,  and  Dell's 
"  black  beet  "  cannot  be  beaten  where  a  foliage  effect 
is  desired.  Of  course  the  runner  bean  must  be  accepted 
as  a  flower.  If  it  has  been  excluded  from  its  rightful 
quarters,  it  is  because  the  idea  is  prevalent  that  it 
cannot  be  grown  unless  in  the  unsightly  way  that  finds 
favour  in  the  kitchen  garden.  It  would  seem  as  if  the 
controllers  of  this  department  aimed  at  achieving  the 
ugly  in  this  particular.  They  make  a  sort  of  gipsy 
tripod  of  boughs,  only  without  removing  the  twigs, 
and  let  the  plant  work  its  way  up  many  of  these. 
This  is  not  good  enough  for  a  garden  where  neatness 
is  regarded  as  a  virtue. 

I  found  that  these  beans  can  be  grown  with  abun- 
dant success  in  a  border,  by  running  a  stout  wire 
along  brackets,  £wo  or  three  feet  out  from  a  wall,  and 
suspending  the  roughest  manila  twine  at  intervals  to 
carnation  wires  in  the  soil  below.  This  gives  an  un- 
obtrusive support  to  the  plants,  and  in  a  fortnight  the 
whole,  of  this  flimsy  frontage  is  hidden,  and  the  blos- 
soms are  blazing  splendidly.  I  have  had  rows  of  over 
a  hundred  feet  of  these  beans,  but  not  one  support 
gave  way  even  in  the  strongest  wind,  and  the  house- 
hold was  supplied  up  to  the  middle  of  November. 

I  am  sure  that  such  experiments  add  greatly  to  the 
interest  of  gardening;  and  I  encourage  my  Olive 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  293 

branch  in  her  craving  after  a  flower  garden  that  shall 
be  made  up  wholly  of  weeds.  She  has  found  out,  I 
cannot  say  how,  that  the  dandelion  is  a  thing  of  beauty 
— she  discovered  one  in  a  garden  that  she  visited,  and 
having  never  seen  one  before,  inquired  what  was  its 
name.  I  told  her  that  the  flower  was  not  absolutely 
new  to  me,  but  lest  I  should  lead  her  astray  as  to  its 
name,  she  would  do  well  to  put  her  inquiry  to  the 
gardener  and  ask  him  for  any  hints  he  could  give  her 
as  to  its  culture,  and  above  all,  how  to  propagate  it 
freely.  If  he  advised  cuttings  and  a  hot  bed,  perhaps 
he  might  be  able  to  tell  her  the  right  temperature,  and 
if  he  thought  ordinary  bonemeal  would  do  for  a  fer- 
tiliser for  it. 

Beyond  a  doubt  a  bed  of  dandelions  would  look 
very  fine,  but  one  cannot  have  everything  in  a  garden, 
and  I  hope  I  may  have  the  chance,  hitherto  denied 
to  me,  of  resigning  myself  to  its  absence  from  mine, 
even  though  it  be  only  for  a  single  week. 

But  there  are  many  worthy  weeds  to  be  found  when 
one  looks  carefully  for  them,  and  I  should  regard 
with  great  interest  any  display  of  them  in  a  bed  (in  a 
neighbour's  garden,  providing  that  that  garden  was 
not  within  a  mile  of  mine). 

The  transformation  just  mentioned  of  a  decrepit 
greenhouse  into  the  sub-tropical  pleasure-ground,  was 
not  my  inspiration  for  my  treatment  of  a  greenhouse 
which  encumbered  a  part  of  my  ground  only  a  short 
time  ago.  It  was  a  necessity  for  a  practice  of  rigid 
economy  that  inspired  me  when  I  examined  the  dilapi- 
dations and  estimated  the  cost  of  "  making  good  "  at 


294  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

something  little  short  of  fifty  pounds.  It  had  been 
patched  often  enough  before,  goodness  knows,  and  its 
wounds  had  been  poulticed  with  putty  until  in  some 
places  it  seemed  to  be  suffering  from  an  irrepressible 
attack  of  mumps. 

Now  the  building  had  always  been  an  offence  to 
me.  It  was  like  an  incompetent  servant,  who,  in  ad- 
dition to  being  incapable  of  earning  his  wages,  is  pos- 
sessed of  an  enormous  appetite.  With  an  old-fash- 
ioned heating  apparatus  the  amount  of  fuel  it  con- 
sumed year  by  year  was  appalling;  and  withal  it  had 
more  than  once  played  us  false,  with  the  result  that 
several  precious  lives  were  lost  in  a  winter  when  we 
looked  to  the  greenhouse  to  give  us  some  colour  for 
indoors.  With  such  a  list  of  convictions  against  it,  I 
was  not  disposed  to  be  lenient,  and  the  suggestion  of 
the  discipline  of  a  Reformatory  was  coldly  received 
by  me. 

The  fact  was,  that  in  my  position  as  judge,  I  re- 
sembled too  closely  the  one  in  Gilbert's  Trial  by  Jury 
to  allow  of  my  being  trusted  implicitly  in  cases  in 
which  personal  attractions  are  to  be  put  in  the  scales 
of  even-handed  Justice;  and  with  all  its  burden  of 
guilt  that  greenhouse  bore  the  reputation  of  unsight- 
liness.  If  it  had  had  a  single  redeeming  feature,  I 
might  have  been  susceptible  to  its  influence;  but  it 
had  none.  It  had  been  born  commonplace,  and  old 
age  had  not  improved  it. 

Leaning  against  the  uttermost  boundary  wall  of 
the  garden,  it  had  been  my  achievement  to  hide  it 
by  the  hedge  of  briar  roses  and  the  colonnade;  but 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  295 

it  was  sometimes  only  with  great  difficulty  that  we 
could  head  off  visitors  from  its  doors.  Heywood 
heaped  on  it  his  concentrated  opprobrium  by  calling 
it  the  Crystal  Palace;  but  Dorothy,  who  had  been  a 
student  of  Jane  Eyre,  had  given  it  the  name  of 
"  Rochester's  Wife,"  and  we  had  behaved  toward  it 
pretty  much  as  Jane's  lover  had  behaved  in  his  en- 
deavour to  set  up  a  younger  and  more  presentable 
object  in  the  place  of  his  mature  demented  partner: 
we  had  two  other  glass-houses  that  we  could  enter  and 
see  entered  without  misgiving;  so  that  when  we  stood 
beside  the  offending  one  with  the  estimate  of  the  cost 
of  its  reformation,  I,  at  any  rate,  was  not  disposed  to 
leniency. 

"  A  case  for  the  Reformatory,"  said  Dorothy,  and 
in  a  moment  the  word  brought  to  my  mind  the  advice 
of  the  young  lord  Hamlet,  and  I  called  out, — 

"  Reform  it  altogether." 

'What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked;  for  she  some- 
times gives  me  credit  for  uttering  words  with  a  mean- 
ing hidden  somewhere  among  the  meshes  of  verbiage. 

"  I  have  spoken  the  decision  of  the  Court,"  I  re- 
plied. "  '  Reform  it  altogether.'  " 

"  At  a  cost — a  waste — of  sixty  odd  pounds?  " 

"  I  will  not  try  to  renew  its  youth  like  the  eagles," 
said  I,  in  the  tone  of  voice  of  a  prophet  in  the  act  of 
seeing  a  vision.  "  I  shall  make  a  new  thing  of  it,  and 
a  thing  of  beauty  into  the  bargain." 

She  laughed  pretty  much  as  in  patriarchal  days 
Sarai  laughed  at  the  forecast  of  an  equally  unlikely 
occurrence. 


296  A  GARDEN  OF.  PEACE 

After  an  interval  she  laughed  again,  but  with  no 
note  of  derision. 

"  I  see  it  all  now— all! "  she  cried.  '  You  will  be 
the  Martin  Luther  of  its  Reformation:  you  wiU  cut 
the  half  of  it  away;  but  will  the  Church  stand  when 
you  have  done  with  it?  " 

"  Stronger  than  it  ever  was.  I  will  hear  the  voice 
of  no  protestant  against  it,"  I  replied. 

My  scheme  had  become  apparent  to  her  in  almost 
every  particular  as  it  had  flashed  upon  me;  and  we 
began  operations  the  very  next  day. 

And  this  is  what  the  operation  amounted  to — an 
Amputation. 

When  a  limb  has  suffered  such  an  injury  as  to  make 
its  recovery  hopeless  as  well  as  a  danger  to  the  whole 
body,  the  saving  grace  of  the  surgeon's  knife  is  re- 
sorted to,  and  the  result  is  usually  the  rescue  of  the 
patient.  Our  resolution  was  to  cut  away  the  rotten 
parts  of  the  roof  of  the  greenhouse  and  convert  the 
remainder,  which  was  perfectly  sound,  into  a  peach- 
shelter;  and  within  a  couple  of  weeks  the  operation 
had  been  performed  with  what  appeared  to  us  to  be 
complete  success. 

We  removed  the  lower  panes  of  glass  without  diffi- 
culty— the  difficulty  was  to  induce  the  others  to  re- 
main under  their  bondage  of  ancient  putty :  "  They 
don't  make  putty  like  that  nowadays,"  remarked  my 
builder,  who  is  also,  in  accordance  with  the  dictation 
of  a  job  like  this,  a  housebreaker,  a  carpenter,  and  a 
glazier— a  sort  of  unity  of  many  tools  that  comes  to 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  297 

our  relief    (very   appropriately)    from  the   United 
States. 

I  replied  to  him  enigmatically  that  putty  was  a 
very  good  servant,  but  a  very  bad  master.  The  dic- 
tum had  no  connection  with  the  matter  in  hand,  but 
it  sounded  as  if  it  had,  and  that  it  was  the  crystallisa- 
tion of  wisdom;  and  the  good  workman  accepted  it 
at  its  face  value.  He  removed  over  two  hundred 
panes,  each  four  feet  by  ten  inches,  without  breaking 
one,  and  he  removed  more  than  a  thousand  feet  of  the 
two-inch  laths  from  the  stages,  the  heavier  ones  being 
of  oak;  he  braced  up  the  seven  foot  depth  of  roof 
which  we  decreed  should  shelter  our  peaches,  and 
"  made  good  "  the  inequalities  of  the  edges.  In  short, 
he  made  a  thoroughly  good  job  of  the  affair,  and 
when  he  had  finished  he  left  us  with  a  new  and  very 
interesting  feature  of  the  garden.  A  lean-to  green- 
house is,  as  a  rule,  a  commonplace  incident  in  a  garden 
landscape,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  it  pays  for  its  keep, 
though  admittedly  useful  as  a  nursery;  but  a  peach- 
alley  is  interesting  because  unusual.  In  our  place  of 
peace  this  element  is  emphasised  through  our  having 
allowed  the  elevated,  brick-built  border  that  existed 
before,  to  remain  untouched,  and  also  the  framework 
where  the  swing-glass  ventilators  had  been  hung. 
When  our  peach-trees  were  planted,  flanked  by  plums 
and  faced  by  apples  en  espatier,  we  covered  the 
borders  with  violas  of  various  colours,  and  enwreathed 
the  framework  with  the  Cape  Plumbago  and  the  Jas- 
mine Solanum,  and  both  responded  nobly  to  our  de- 
mands. 


298  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

Nothing  remained  in  order  to  place  the  transforma- 
tion in  harmony  with  its  surroundings  but  to  turn  the 
two  large  brick  tanks  which  had  served  us  well  in 
receiving  the  water  from  the  old  roof,  into  ornamental 
lily  ponds,  and  this  was  accomplished  by  the  aid  of 
some  of  the  stone  carvings  which  I  had  picked  up 
from  time  to  time,  in  view  of  being  able  to  give  them 
a  place  of  honour  some  day.  On  the  whole,  we  are 
quite  satisfied  with  this  additional  feature.  It  creates 
another  surprise  for  the  entertainment  of  a  visitor, 
and  when  the  peaches  and  plums  ripen  simultaneously, 
following  the  strawberries,  we  shall  have,  if  we  are  to 
believe  Friswell,  many  more  friends  coming  to  us. 

"If  they  are  truly  friends,  we  shall  be  glad,"  says 
Dorothy. 

"  By  your  fruits  ye  shall  know  them,"  says  he,  for 
like  most  professors  of  the  creed  of  the  incredulous, 
he  is  never  so  much  at  his  ease  as  when  quoting  Scrip- 
ture. 

This  morning  as  I  was  playing  (indifferently)  the 
part  of  Preceptress  Pinkerton,  trying  to  induce  on 
Rosamund,  Olive,  Francie,  Marjorie,  and  our  dear, 
wise  John,  a  firm  grasp  of  the  elements  of  the  nature 
of  the  English  People  as  shown  by  their  response  to 
the  many  crusades  in  which  they  have  taken  part 
since  the  first  was  proclaimed  by  Peter  the  Hermit, 
I  came  to  that  part  of  my  illuminating  discourse 
which  referred  to  the  Nation's  stolidity  even  in  their 
hour  of  supreme  triumph. 

'This,"  said  I,  "may  be  regarded  by  the  more 


A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE  299 

emotional  peoples  of  Europe  as  showing  a  certain 
coldness  of  temperament,  in  itself  suggesting  a  want 
of  imagination,  or  perhaps,  a  cynical  indifference — 
'  cynical,'  mind  you,  from  kyon,  a  dog — to  incidents 
that  should  quicken  the  beating  of  every  human  heart. 
But  I  should  advise  you  to  think  of  this  trait  of  our 
great  Nation  as  indicating  a  praiseworthy  reserve  of 
the  deepest  feelings.  I  regard  with  respect  those 
good  people  who  to-day  are  going  about  their  busi- 
ness in  the  streets  of  our  town  just  in  the  usual  way, 
although  the  most  important  news  that  has  reached 
the  town  since  the  news  of  the  capture  of  Antioch  in 
1099,  is  expected  this  evening.  And  you  will  find  that 
they  will  appear  just  as  unconcerned  if  they  learn 
that  the  terms  of  the  Armistice  have  been  accepted— 
they  will  stroll  about  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets 
— not  a  cheer.  ...  Is  that  your  mother  calling  you, 
John? " 

"No;  I  think  it's  somebody  in  the  street?"  said 
John. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot.  It's  Monday — market  day. 
There's  more  excitement  in  Yardley  High  Street  if  a 
cow  turns  into  Waterport  Lane  than  there  will  be 
when  Peace  is  proclaimed.  But  still,  I  repeat,  that 
this  difference  .  .  .  What  was  that?  two  cows  must 

have  turned  into Why,  what's  this — what's — sit 

down,  all  of  you — I  tell  you  it's  only " 

"  Hurrah  —  hurrah  —  hurrah  — hurrah — hurrah  1 " 
comes  from  the  five  young  throats  of  five  rosy^ 
cheeked,  unchecked  children,  responding  to  the  five 
hundred  that  roar  through  the  streets. 


300  A  GARDEN  OF  PEACE 

In  five  minutes  the  front  of  our  house  is  ablaze  with 
flags,  and  five  Union  Jacks  are  added  to  the  hundreds 
that  young  and  old  wave  over  their  heads  in  the  street ; 
and  amid  the  tumult  the  recent  admirer  of  the  stolid 
English  People  is  risking  his  neck  in  an  endeavour  to 
fix  a  Crusader's  well-worn  helmet  in  an  alcove  above 
the  carven  lions  on  the  porch  of  his  home. 

There,  high  over  us,  stands  the  Castle  Keep  as  it 
stood  in  the  days  of  the  First  Crusade. 

"  And  ever  above  the  topmost  roof  the  banner  of 
England  blew." 


Going  out  I  saw  a  cow  stray  down  Waterport 
Lane;  but  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  its  errantry. 


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